Gay Harry Potter-06-2c-Craig and Tom
by jerome1980
Summary: Craig is a straight boy who falls in love with another boy. Tom is a Gay boy who doesn't want a boyfriend. They meet in the Orphanage, but it's not till O.W.L.'s year that things get complicated. They're average students, but being good Maryhill boys, they're 'O', 'Outstanding' at Murder.


GAY HARRY POTTER-06-2c-TALES FROM THE NINE O'CLOCK CLUB CRAIG AND TOM

_**Prologue**_

Mary-Ann stood in front of the mirror and laughed at the irony of it all.

She had been the prettiest little baby in Glasgow; the cleverest girl; the most powerful teenage witch; the most courted by all the local pureblood youths.

And now, just when the Dark Lord was about to liberate her and all the rest of his followers: there, in front of her, was a gaunt, grey-skinned woman—no-one would have called her a girl—with dead eyes and a cruel set to her mouth; a witch without a wand; a woman whose once-sharp brain had faded through disuse and abuse.

She chanted aloud: _Mary-Ann from Azkaban_. But in truth, she knew that her degeneration had begun long before they had sent her to the sea-fortress.

The Aurors had told her that she had ruined her mind and body through use of the Dark Arts and firewhisky—bad enough in themselves, but lethal in combination.

At her first Examination, she had had enough spirit to upbraid them: who were they to denigrate thousands of years of wizarding excellence? Who were they to denigrate a golden fluid that had helped so many of her family through difficult times?

But soon, she had become apathetic, not even reacting to the harsh twelve-month sentence; not even reacting when she was released after three months, due to pressure of space as Azkaban filled up with death eaters.

That she had been sentenced at all was an indication of the terrible state things had come to. How could they condemn a pureblood witch for a few mild curses against Muggles and a little expropriation from Muggle shops?

The Dark Lord would sort things out. The magic world would put the Muggles in their place; and within the magic world, the purebloods would come into their own.

Some of her family were probably in Azkaban, though of course she had got to meet nobody at all during her stay. Those of the family who had avoided capture—including her parents—were fighting for the Dark Lord in guerrilla cells all over the country.

She was alone in the family tenement. When her parents had raised five children in the two rooms, the place had been spotless, but these days, Mary-Ann couldn't be bothered with it. There was no-one to keep it clean for; no man to feed; to cosset; to open her legs and . . .

That was another thing: she'd been through a lot, yet had never had someone to scratch that itch that was always there between her legs. All the scratching had been done by herself. A fragment of her education came back to her: the scratching was _literal and metaphorical_.

A virgin.

She took another sip from the half-bottle and sang aloud: _Twenty-one, never been done, queen of all the fairies_. She was well on the way to becoming a classic hag. The Ministry would be turning up any day now to fit her with a pointy nose, a pointy chin, and a couple of warts, complete with hair.

She heard the crack of someone Apparating to the landing she shared with two Muggle families; then came the coded knock.

It was a safe house for people moving between missions, or needing to lie low when the Aurors were closing in.

Mary-Ann opened the door to a young wizard who gave his name as Johan, though he didn't sound German.

"I've to stay to Midnight," he told her—though there was more than a hint of _tae stay tae Mudnight_ about it.

"I hope your mission doesn't rely on hiding your Scottish roots," she said to him.

"Jings, naw!" he laughed, "Ah mean: _Ach nein!_"

She made him tea, which he took with a dash, as should any red-blooded Scot. She went on a message for a carry-out fish and chips.

"Muggle food," he said.

"Nothing wrong with Muggle food," she said, "Except we have to pay for it; and under the Dark Lord, that'll change."

"Amen to that," he said, "And we'll be able to talk Scots without being second-class citizens."

"And Amen to that," she said.

The English had done the dirty on Scotland: a few hundred years ago, they had announced that England and Scotland were to be one country. They had appointed Regional Pastors to rule on their behalf. The Scottish wizards and witches had risen to kill some Pastors and drive the rest into exile. The English had backed down and agreed that Scotland was independent, except that it would be overseen by a Ministry-appointed Moderator. This meant that England and Scotland were effectively one country, after all.

Scottish Muggles had also been forced to become English: Muggle politicians were just as devious as those in the Ministry.

What rankled most was that many of the politicians—magic and Muggle—were Scottish. Without Scotsmen, Hogwarts School, St Mungo's Hospital, the Ministry itself would not have survived; without Muggle Scots, there would have been no British Empire and no British Engineering.

He Who Must Not Be Named had decreed that Scotland was a separate country again. Much of the current fighting was coloured by the confused Nationality, religious, and Blood Status issues.

Johan was clearly a Dark Nationalist, and Mary-Ann's heart warmed to him.

"It's men like you who'll see us to victory," she said.

"And I hope tonight to bring it closer," he said.

"Can you tell me about your mission?"

"That I can't, except to say that it's a suicide mission, and this is likely to be my last night on Earth."

"You brave man! To give your life to the Cause, without regrets!"

"Yes, but there's many do that . . . though I _do_ have one small regret."

"What?"

"I'm a virgin, so I'll die without ever knowing the union of witch and wizard which people describe as glorious."

"That you will not!" said Mary-Ann, "You'll make use of my body, here and now!"

"You'd do that for the Cause?"

"That I would! Tell me what to do."

Under Johan's direction, she stripped and lay on the bed in the alcove. He took off his pants and opened his robe.

She had a glimpse of his tadger. The only stiff tadgers she had seen before were when her brothers were wee. This one was bigger, and the same colour as her face.

With surprising accuracy, he rammed it inside her. There was a sharp pain, but she would willingly have suffered much more for the Dark Lord.

Then it was over. She was a complete witch.

A few minutes later, he was off, leaving Mary-Ann in a state of happy pride.

After a week, spots started appearing on her face. Over the next few weeks, more varieties of spots appeared on her body, and it started to hurt when she went piddle.

When the spots developed tiny mouths, and started giving off the odour of dead meat so they could eat the flies that were attracted, she decided that something had to be done.

She went to the wizard physician, who told her that she was infected with a cocktail of magical and Muggle sexually-transmitted diseases.

"You've been putting it about a bit, young lady," he said.

"I've only ever been with one man," she said, indignantly.

"Well he was absolutely _riddled_ with it. Oh, and you're pregnant."

_**1**_

Perhaps the defining day of Craig Alexander's childhood was the day that he played with Robert Brown's tadger.

The young witches and wizards of the district usually spent the day in the park by the River Kelvin. They mixed with the Muggle kids, when they weren't at school, but Craig wasn't totally sure if he was happy with this: Muggles were jumped-up people who thought that they ruled the world, and that magic counted for nothing.

The Muggles could play with the wizards, but could not fully apprehend them: if, for example, a boy said _My Dad can turn a candle into a pencil_ the Muggles would simply not have heard him.

That was a bad example: not many of the young witches and wizards had dads; not many dads had wands; and probably none of them were capable even of an Elementary Transformation.

The Muggles never noticed that the magic kids were often barefoot; but the kids noticed that the Muggles were _never_ barefoot; and yet they didn't think to lay this fact against their parents' (and hence their own) universal belief that Muggles were comically primitive and wretched folk.

On this special day, it was wet and windy; Craig and Robert polished off the ginger that they had shoplifted earlier. (Theft from Muggles was okay as long as you didn't use magic; but if you _did_ use magic the dreaded Department of Magical Law Enforcement would be on to you; and as they were dealing with slum-scum, showed no mercy in their infliction of agonising Stinging Curses. Most boys suffered once, and once only).

Robert pulled his tadger out of his robe and had a piss.

Most boys wore Muggle clothes; Robert in his robe would have been seen by Muggles as dressed in British Standard Chav.

"Please let me feel your penis, Robert," asked Craig—his _verbatim_ was: _Gunna see's a wee chirt o' yer tadger, Rab?_ but we canna, I mean can't, be doing with that for the whole story.

Craig was allowed a feel; then Robert felt Craig's; then they dropped their skids to grope each other's stanes.

A harmless episode of boyish curiosity, one would have thought; except that Robert told his brother who told Mr Brown who complained to Uncle Findlay.

Craig and his mother had usually had an uncle staying with them—Craig could remember Uncle George, Uncle Rab, Uncle Eddie, and Uncle Jimmy.

Uncle Findlay was like the others: a drunken, violent man, whose life was focused on avoiding work, getting boozed up, and shagging Mam, with occasional batterings thrown in.

Uncle Findlay took Mr Brown's accusations seriously: "A wee sapsie poof is it?" he said, "Get your arse out and bend over the bed and we'll beat some manhood into you."

He took off his thick leather belt, and laid into Craig.

"Mam! Mam!" he screamed after three strokes.

"Give it to him hard, Fin!" she yelled, "I'm not having a child of mine growing up a jessie! And to think I had to learn it from a Blood Traitor!"

Mr Brown had married a Muggle woman.

Craig was used to thrashings, but this was a bad one, made worse by the fact that Mam, who usually stuck up for him, was egging Uncle Findlay on.

Afterwards, he went to his cold bedroom, and cried himself to sleep, only for the pain to wake him up repeatedly.

He decided to make use of this: Mam and Uncle Findlay had got extra-special drunk that night.

He crept into the main room, in the middle of the night, and pulled one of the white plastic bags from the fish shop over Uncle Findlay's head. _I should be doing it to you, Mam_ he thought.

Uncle Findlay died with scarcely a twitch, and Craig removed the bag and went back to bed.

From the screams and lamentations the next morning, one would have thought that Mam was indeed dying herself.

Craig was still aching, but there was a smile fixed on his face. The smile broadened when the Wizard Undertakers dumped Uncle Findlay in a pauper's grave.

In no time at all, Craig acquired an Uncle Alec. He proved to be slightly less violent, but displayed his own brand of unpleasantness one afternoon, when Mam was at the shops.

He got his tadger out—a stiff, man's tadger with hair around it.

"Come over here, you, and get this in your mouth," he ordered.

"I won't!" said Craig.

In a trice, Uncle Alan was across the room, and gave Craig a great daud on the head. He forced him onto his knees, and positioned his mouth.

"Suck!" he shouted, "Suck harder! . . . Harder!"

He moved Craig's head backwards and forwards, until his mouth filled with a filthy bree.

As soon as Craig was released, he ran to the cludgie on the landing and vomited until his stomach muscles were sore.

He went to his bedroom to have a weep, but Uncle Alec followed him in, put his hands round his neck, and told him: "One word to your maw and I'll kill you!"

Craig didn't tell his mother, but there was a killing nevertheless.

On a particularly drunken night, Uncle Alec got the plastic bag treatment, and there was more consternation on the next morning.

Word spread that Mary-Ann Alexander was cursed, so there were no more uncles.

"You're bad luck!" shouted his mother, a week after the funeral, "You've been bad luck since you mucked up my insides when you came into this rotten world!"

Short of money, and short of men, she took a job in the city centre. Craig soon learned from the other kids that the job involved standing round with a lot of Muggle women, and letting Muggle men take her away and shag her.

Occasionally, she would bring home a man to spend the night in the tenement.

These men were all much nicer than the uncles, treating Craig with kindness, and sometimes tipping him a few quid.

He liked having money. He could buy things to share with the other kids—not Rab Broon, of course—and he could afford the bus fare to the Necropolis for a piss over Uncle Findlay and Uncle Alec.

Life seemed to be going okay, but then, the Ministry swooped.

Mam had needed rescuing from the Muggle police a few times, and the Ministry had lost patience.

She was removed to St Monica's Home for Intransigent Inebriate Witches, and Craig to the Chenevix Trench-Squeers Orphanage for Indigent Magical Leftovers.

_**2**_

He was taken by a nice lady on his first Floo ride, and his first pony-and-trap ride.

Chenny, as he learned to call it, consisted of a number of separate cottages, and wasn't really a single institution: each cottage had its own living, sleeping, eating and learning areas; and even its own play areas.

There were high double fences separating the cottages, so physical contact was impossible. There was a high wall, with some sort of curse arrangement along the top, separating boys from girls, so they couldn't even see each other.

Craig was taken to a cottage called:

_Male 10-11_

_Illiterate_

After he had got his Letters, he realised that the cart had passed age groups from _0-3_ to _8-9_, and categories _Imbecile_, _Illiterate_ and _Possible_. Also later, he learned that ages went up to _14-15_, but most of the boys in this top group went out to work at seven in the morning and came back twelve hours later. There were two extra cottages called: _Vegetable_ and _Dangerous_.

He was taken immediately to a classroom, then, when it became apparent that he was over-qualified in terms of mental capacity, he was taken to another classroom, where another nice lady was going through the alphabet.

He first saw his fellow-students at dinner, and could barely credit that he had been dumped into what was only the middle category. Surely, no collection of twenty-seven boys could be more stupid, than this.

In the period between tea and supper, while playing with a good selection of toys, he got to know his new friends better.

Most of them were interested in the newcomer, and he soon learned their names. They were friendly as well—too friendly, in some cases, wanting to hold hands, or groping for his tadger. Many of them had their hands inside their clothes, groping their _own_ tadgers. One or two had their tadgers out, and were rubbing them.

He thought of Bob Broon. It was groping his tadger that had ultimately led to Craig ending up at Chenny.

At bedtime, tadger-play had to stop for about half the boys: the staff put nappies onto them. Three of the boys needed nappies during the day as well.

On the first night, he wished he was home; he wished Mam was here. He cried himself asleep, and woke up ashamed of having done so.

All twenty-seven boys were squeezed into one bedroom. Despite the extreme narrowness of the beds, you had to turn sideways to walk between them.

After a week, just when he was beginning to feel comfortable, he was moved to _Possible_.

There were only sixteen boys in his new house, and he got to know them quickly. There were several Scots, but Craig quickly befriended one in particular: Tom Leggatt came from Maryhill, near Craig's home.

Tom had been here for two years. Like Craig, it had been due to uncle-trouble: in Tom's case, the latest uncle wouldn't move in unless Tom's mamma kicked him out.

A little bit of bullying allowed Craig and Tom to have adjacent beds so that they could continue their conversations in whispers. Talking after lights-out was banned, but David Baldwin, the Corregulator, allowed it on the unspoken basis that, in return, no-one would speak of his night-time visits to the bedroom. He was meant to stick to his own room next door unless there was a specific need for him to go to the boys' room.

There was no overt tadger-play for the Possibles: playing with your own got you a stroke of the cane; and playing with another boy's got you two strokes—serious strokes, as the scars on several arses demonstrated.

Baldwin liked to play with 10-11 tadgers. He was a big thirteen-year-old: the most reliable _Possible_ within each age-group was appointed Corregulator for the group below. Baldwin was sometimes absent during the night, in some unknown third location.

Tom told Craig: "Kidd's having his arse."

"What do you mean?" asked Craig.

Tom explained.

It seemed an unlikely thing for anyone to do—especially Mr Kidd, the Housefurer, whose chief physical attribute was a pair of bushy eyebrows like cockroaches; and whose character was one of humourless sternness.

During breaks, Tom sometimes took Craig to the bottom fence. Because of the curvature of the layout, they were only forty yards from _Male 8-9 Possible_, and Tom was able to talk to his friend Paul.

"He sounds English," said Craig, one day, "How's he your pal?"

"We met and made friends," said Tom, "Just like me and you."

It sounded weird but Craig wasn't going to lose his only friend: "Aye, we're good pals right enough, Tam," he said.

Then Tom Leggatt _kissed him_! Kissed him on the lips!

Craig smacked him, and they were straightaway rolling over on the ground, trying to punch each other.

They were separated and taken to Mr Kidd's office, where they stood, their tempers long-abated, in front of his desk.

"Fighting!" said the man, "Tom, you know the penalty for fighting; and you, Craig, are going to find out."

"I started it, sir," said Craig, "I hit him."

"No, I started it, Sir," said Tom.

"Shut up the pair of you," said Mr Kidd, "Fighting is fighting and gets punished."

He got to his feet, and walked over to a dragon-foot waste paper bin that Craig had not noticed. There were a dozen assorted canes. He selected one—bendy, and with a curved handle—and cut it through the air. It made a sinister, swishing sound.

He smiled sweetly at them, saying: "I think _this_ one today. Turn the sofa round."

They turned the sofa so that it faced the wall.

"Pants down; robes up; bend over the back of the sofa."

The boys obeyed.

Craig heard the door open and Mr Kidd called: "Send David Baldwin across, please."

He felt a hand on his arse. The man was stroking it, and saying: "House rules: your Corregulator is to be present."

The man had moved over to Tom at the other end of the sofa, and Craig could hear Tom's arse being stroked as the boys were given a lecture on their crime and its punishment.

Mr Kidd was alternating, and was using both hands to feel and squeeze their arses, all the while continuing his address.

Then he parted Craig's hurdies, and Craig felt a finger stroking his arsehole.

He was beyond surprise; he was totally terrified and alienated from the world.

There came a tap on the door, and Baldwin was called in.

Then there was a long, dreadful silence.

He had been expecting the blow, and he had been expecting it to be bad, but it came as a surprise. and with such pain as he had never known—even from the Ministry's Stinging Charms.

Tears came to his eyes and his whole body was centred on the pain.

The second stroke made him scream aloud. He didn't see how he could endure more.

But Mr Kidd had moved on to Tom, who screamed after the third stroke, and even louder after the fourth.

"What do you think, David," said Mr Kidd, "Is that enough?"

"Well, Sir," said the little rat, "He _has_ done it before . . ."

"Quite right, David," said Mr Kidd, and Tom had to endure two more.

The two boys went to the bedroom instead of their class, and lay face down on their beds, snivelling.

Eventually they were capable of talking.

"That's weird all that groping your arse, isn't it?" said Craig, "Did he feel your arsehole?"

"He always does that," said Tom, "Never goes further. I expect it was Baldwin's arsehole took the hammering."

"It's not right. Someone should be told."

"He's just an old poof; there's probably millions if the Ministry."

"You're the poof! You kissed me, Tom Leggatt."

"It was just a wee way of saying we were pals."

"I suppose the next wee way is you saying _I love you, Craig, dearest_. Well you can pack it all in now!"

"I'll pack _you_ in. I _am_ a poof, and I wouldn't love you for a million Galleons. I love Paul Grindell."

Craig was stunned into silence.

Then he burst out: "How can you love someone you've only met half a Quidditch pitch away?"

"You wouldn't understand; now piss off!"

"You're right I wouldn't; I'm going to Letters."

The boys had split forever, but by the middle of the next day were best pals again—but only on condition that there would be _Nae kissin'; nae gropin'; an' nane o' y'r jessie cantrips_.

_**3**_

Despite the beatings—and there were a couple more, Mr Kidd having it in for them—Craig was enjoying life at Chenny. His Letters and Sums were progressing apace, and he was at least better than average at Use of Wands.

One thing puzzled him: what was it all _for_?

"Our House is called _Possible_," he said to Tom, "Possible what?"

"Possible admission to Hogwarts School," said his friend.

"Where'd we get the money? That's some sort of posh wizard-school, isn't it."

"Not _that_ posh: they take Muggle-borns."

Tom was as much for the Dark Lord as his friend.

"Take Muggle-borns? Take their money, more like," said Craig.

"And they don't take _any_ money from boys from Chenny that make it."

"And we're all purebloods, which shows _someone_ in the Ministry's got their priorities right."

"It would be good if we both got in."

"Do they take poofs, then?"

"Ssh! You promised you wouldn't give me away."

"I won't," laughed Craig, "And I really _am_ trying to think of something to do about Paul."

The lads had been exercising their brains for a way that Tom and Paul could meet.

"Or even if I could get a Christmas present to him," said Tom.

"A card! A letter! Why haven't you done that already?" asked Craig.

"I thought of throwing a stone wrapped in a letter, but people would see."

"_Baldwin_ would see. He's really sharp these days."

"Yeah. At least he's leaving us alone."

This turned out to be tempting Fate too much.

A few days later, Craig was woken up in the night by being squashed under a great weight.

By the nightlight he could see that Baldwin was sitting on him. He was helpless.

Then something pressed against his mouth: it was Baldwin's tadger.

Baldwin forced Craig's jaws apart and pushed inside.

"Suck!" he said.

Craig didn't suck: he bit—and bit hard.

Baldwin's scream was deafening.

Shocked, Craig automatically relaxed his grip and Baldwin ran from the room, still screaming. Presumably he was on his way to the HKL (Hospital, Kitchen, Laundry) building.

Everyone asked what was happening, and Craig told them that Baldwin had had a nightmare.

Tom was fascinated. He wanted to know about Baldwin's tadger: whether it smelt; was there a taste; how big was it.

Craig went to sleep expecting nothing further to happen, but in the morning was escorted to the _Dangerous_ building.

He was locked in a cell with nothing in it but a hard bench-bed and a pisspot. It was cold, and he curled up on the bed to keep as warm as possible.

In the evening, he was given some bread and water, and managed to get some sleep, though through the night, his severe shivering kept waking him up.

In the morning, he was escorted to Mr Kidd's office where the Housefurer and a tall, powerful stranger confronted him—a frightening-looking man, with long black hair, a hatchet nose, and a wide moustache.

"Craig," said Mr Kidd, "It is, of course impossible for you to stay with us after the incident. This gentleman is from the Ministry, and is here to accompany you on your exit; and I must say—"

"You must say bugger-all; and don't spout a load of waffle," interrupted the stranger, "Just go through the papers, and let me get back to some _real_ work."

"Quite, quite, Mr Macnair," said Mr Kidd, shuffling his papers about.

Craig took to this Macnair character: anyone who spoke good Scots, and could fluster the Housefurer, was okay in his book.

However, it looked like Craig wouldn't be going to Hogwarts.

Mr Kidd passed over a sheet, saying: "Deposition of David Baldwin. He was sleeping peacefully in his bed when Craig Alexander pulled off the bedclothes and attempted to bite off his penis."

"I was in _my_ bed," said Craig.

"You _would_ say that," said Mr Kidd.

"And so would fifteen others."

"Suborned no doubt to support a member of their House; totally misguided loyalty."

"And there was blood on my bed."

"We have had no reports of any blood found."

"Don't tell me you planted some on Baldwin's bed."

"Er . . . the laundry . . . and I strongly object to the imputation that I—"

"You're not on trial, Kidd; we'll just take this paper as read, and go on to the next one," said Mr Macnair.

"Yes . . . Application for Excretion of Juvenile Malignant Wizard to Muggle World—"

"Are you really going to call sixteen pureblood wizards liars?" said Craig.

Mr Macnair looked interested.

"You'll be called to account when the Dark Lord returns," continued Craig.

"Voldemort is dead," snapped Mr Kidd.

"He Who Must Not Be Named will return," said Craig, emphasising every syllable, and touching the inside of his left forearm in a gesture that he had seen used by some senior Glaswegian Dark Tongleaders.

"Nonsense!" said Mr Kidd, "Volde—"

"You're a fool, Kidd," interrupted Mr Macnair, "Let's not talk about the Dark Lord; let's talk about the _Daily Prophet_. With sixteen witnesses—suborned or not—it's sure to come out; and I can tell you now that the Ministry aren't going to waste resources on keeping a pissy-arsed orphanage clean; and as to what else'll come out: there's gossip at the Ministry that you're a wee bum-bandit. I'd say that's newsworthy, wouldn't you?"

He ripped up the papers.

"What about the other side?" he asked, "How's that boy's willy?"

"Er . . . no permanent damage, though _copulare velut cancer_," said Mr Kidd. He looked as pale as a corpse.

"Don't talk wet: you can't catch cancer overnight. There'll be no compo claims, anyway. I'll report back that it was all a misunderstanding. The Ministry will expect this Craig Alexander to be presented next June healthy, well-fed and well-educated; otherwise the case will be reopened. Goodbye."

He shook the Housefurer's hand; then he shook Craig's, murmuring: _Silence is golden_. He turned and Disapparated.

"You may go to your class, Craig," said Mr Kidd, looking a broken man.

But he was far from broken: next day Tom Leggatt was given six for coughing during Personal Hygiene—a subject that Mr Kidd always took himself.

"You're my whipping-boy," said Craig.

"Eh?" said Tom.

"He can't touch me, so he's going to make my best friend's life hell. If we don't do something, you're arse is going to look like a Muggle pizza."

"What can we do?"

"He'll have to go."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll have to kill him."

"Good idea," said Tom, "How?"

_**4**_

The topic of _How?_ occupied the boys for some weeks.

Craig told Tom about Uncle Findlay and Uncle Alec but it wasn't much help: there were no plastic bags to be had in Chenny. Besides, mention of Uncle Alec always diverted Tom from the matter in hand. He wanted to know whether it smelt; was there a taste; how big was it; did it have hairs; what did the creamy stuff taste like; how sticky was it.

Craig suspected that Tom was a little _too_ fascinated. If Baldwin had picked Tom, he might have been sucked rather than bitten. But Craig held his silence: he valued Tom's friendship, even though he was a poof.

The new Corregulator was a nondescript boy called John Barter. He was a big improvement over David Baldwin, joining in the games and protecting the weaker boys. But he still wouldn't let anyone get away with breaking the rules.

One day they were down at Big Field for FAFABOUT (Fresh air, fun, and bodily or unmental training.)

They could see Muggle motor cars passing on the road; the Muggles could see nothing of the boys, or, indeed, anything at all to do with Chenny.

Barter was present on supervisory duties, though he joined in the FAFABOUT too.

He was a bright boy, and Craig found it puzzling how he had missed the Hogwarts cut.

He approached Barter with another thing that puzzled him: "Barter, do Muggles have any magic?"

"None at all," said Barter.

"Then how do these motor cars move?"

"I've heard they get some special water that burns from the ground, and use the fire to make movement."

"What, like a dragon?"

"I suppose so."

"Is this special water the same as firewhisky? _That_ burns."

"I don't know. Ask Mr Kidd."

"Why?"

"He's got cases of the stuff in his office. I heard Mr Corfield tell Mr Norman that as well as guzzling it like a fish, Mr Kidd sends bottles to people in the Ministry every Christmas. Mr Norman said _we_ don't need booze to bribe our way to getting our oats, and Mr Corfield said speak for yourself; firewhisky's the best thing there is for opening a witch's legs. I haven't a clue what they were on about, but Mr Kidd could tell you."

Craig understood exactly what they were on about, but he didn't enlighten Barter.

He had a plan.

He talked it over afterwards with Tom. They refined and extended it together.

The first step was for Tom to get ill. This was easy, though it took courage: he hid a saucer of stew under his bed, and ate it after it had gone off.

He was taken to the Hospital with sickness and diarrhoea.

On the next day, Craig doubled up with alleged stomach pains.

He was taken to the hospital, where, at a suitable moment, Tom started showing symptoms of loopiness.

While the staff were dealing with Tom, Craig boldly went to the Potions Cupboard and snaffled a bottle of Sleeping Draught.

The next day, they were both released, with Craig hiding the bottle inside his robe.

There was no time like the present, and after tea, Craig slipped into Mr Kidd's office and poured a good portion of the Potion into a half-full bottle of firewhisky that was sitting on the cabinet.

They kept each other awake until they were sure the rest of the boys were asleep; then crept past Barter's room and into Mr Kidd's office.

He was asleep in his comfy chair.

Tom pulled Mr Kidd's wand from his robe, while Craig located the stache of firewhisky. He poured a bottle over Mr Kidd, who did not stir. Excellent! He was fast asleep.

Craig treated his Housefurer to another three bottles; then it was time for Tom to take charge: waving the wand, he invoked_ Incendio!_

Both boys had been sneakily trying out this spell during Use of Wands—Craig with no success, but Tom able to produce a tiny spark.

And a tiny spark was all it took: there was a businesslike _Whoomph!_ and Mr Kidd was afire.

They exited, closing the door behind them, and went back to their room.

After ten minutes, they smelt burning, and gave the alarm: _Fire! Fire!_

Sixteen wide-awake, mostly terrified, boys, plus Barter, made their way out the front door—an egress banned to the boys except for fire drills—and of course, the real thing.

The Alarm Bell sounded, and boys from all the houses, accompanied by their Housefurers, assembled on the roadway.

"Don't just gawp, ye wee numpty!" shouted Craig, dragging his friend towards the Male 8-9 Possibles.

They found Paul Grindell.

"Hello, Paul," said Tom.

"Hello, Tom," said Paul. He was a skinny boy with a creamy-pale face and lank, straw-coloured hair.

The conversation continued on less than sparkling lines:

"You alright?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. Cold, innit!"

"Yeah."

"For God's sake!" said Craig, "Kiss him, you idiot!"

Tom and Paul had a peck, then stood looking at each other in panic.

They only had a moment before the boys were summoned for roll-call.

Craig noticed that several of the boys in his House had suffered accidents—front, rear, or both.

"There'll be a few joining Ricketts," he remarked.

Ricketts was the only nappy-case among the Male 10-11 Possibles.

"Some of them should never have been taken out of nappies at all," said Tom, "There's a neef of piss and shite all over the House."

Craig had his first look at the Imbeciles, and his first experience of an adult perspective: he was filled with sympathy and admiration for the Ministry staff and volunteers who looked after these hopeless cases.

The fire-wagons put out the fire, the undertakers carted away the charred corpse, and the boys were able to go back to their house: only Mr Kidd's office had been destroyed.

"It _still_ smells of toilet," said Tom, as they settled down for sleep.

Craig reached out and held his friend's hand.

"That was a good night's work," he said.

_**5**_

They had to attend Mr Kidd's funeral, where there was not a moist eye in the house.

His replacement was a doddery, but astute, old man called Mr Scott-Kerr, who had been clearly hauled from retirement.

Craig's education blossomed under the more benign regime, and he knew he was destined for Hogwarts.

In practice the Hogwarts contingent picked itself: it would be fair to describe the majority of the _Possibles_ as _Most-Improbables_.

He had overheard Mr Scott-Kerr ascribe the general numptiness of Chenny boys and girls to _Inbreeding—the hidden downside of blood-purity_.

So on September 1st, Craig and Tom took their seats on the Hogwarts Express, accompanied by three more Chenny boys.

The two friends were Sorted into Ravenclaw; Colin Goodenough into Hufflepuff; Andrew Darkham and Royston Taylor into Slytherin.

The two Ravenclaws become firm friends with the other boys in their dormitory from the first night.

The star was undoubtedly Michael Weeks, a lively, clever, witty boy who was terrific company: full of intellectual and entertaining ideas, and an ideal companion for any boy or girl—and he spent much of his time with girls, having obviously been born a ladies' man.

The best-looking boy was the dark-haired Adam Watts. He was also the best-looking in the House—and in the School, thought Craig, loyally; though less-biased judges found it hard to choose between Adam and the fair-haired Colin Creevey of Gryffindor.

Adam was a self-confessed poof, though he denied that being a poof needed confession, and called it being gay. He spent a lot of his free time in the company of older boys—many of them members of a rather queer set in Hufflepuff.

Tom, used to the repression of the Glasgow streets and the orphanage, kept his poofiness secret, and lived a steady life, enjoying the lessons and the games in company with Craig.

They were quickly joined in their friendship by James Poxon, the fifth, and quietest, member of the dormitory, and the three boys did everything together—three rather shy boys who only really blossomed in each other's company.

The Hogwarts atmosphere seemed Heaven for boys from the Chenevix Trench-Squeers establishment, and Craig told Tom one night: "I think I know what the word _happy_ means."

Tom agreed, but Craig knew that each of them had a little flaw in their happiness: they missed their Mammies.

He suspected that all the other ex-Chennies at Hogwarts suffered similarly. But it was maybe this problem that lead them to their friendliness, lack of malignity and care for others. He also suspected that some of the boys they had left behind had been driven the other way, into a state that he learned Muggles called autism.

The teachers seemed to take special care that the Chenny boys did not suffer verbal abuse or bullying. Even Professor Snape toned down his nastiness—and not only for his Slytherins.

For the first year, Craig and Tom spent the holidays in School; but James persuaded his parents that his happiness depended on his pals staying with him and from then on the three of them were together all the year round.

Truth to tell, Mr and Mrs Poxon didn't need much persuasion: they were very posh, but not snobs, and were delighted that their son, who was less than good-looking, and had been less than outgoing as a young child, had found two such loyal friends, even if they were from the scummy classes.

Matters became more complicated in their third year, when little Paul Grindell from Chenny arrived, and was sorted into Ravenclaw.

Immediately, Tom's passion was re-awakened.

He unburdened himself onto Craig, and, on Craig's advice, onto James.

The three lads discussed matters on several occasions.

"It's not sex," said Tom, "But I _would_ like to be able to have a kiss and cuddle now and then, instead of just talking."

Neither of his friends recommended going open and following Adam Watts' example by slipping between dormitories at night.

"What does Paul think?" asked Craig.

"He feels the same," said Tom.

"Not to be too cynical, if he's a poof, he might find it easier to go with someone from his own dorm."

"No, he agreed it would be nice to kiss; and don't use that word."

"A kiss doesn't take long. Why not slip into the cludgie with him?"

"Like Danny Jorrocks? I've heard he does a bit more than kiss."

"Danny's like Adam: he doesn't mind telling everyone he's gay," interposed James.

"Which I'm not going to do," said Tom.

"You could keep it secret," said Craig. "Me and James could act as lookouts and attention-diverters."

"No it'll never work."

But work it did: Tom and Paul met at least once a week for passionate kisses, and later on for tadger-diddling.

"They're a right pair of curiosities, aren't they?" said Craig to James, as they waited outside the bog one day.

"They must be having fun," said James.

"Each to his own."

"I wouldn't mind trying it."

"Don't tell me you're turning gay, Jamesy?"

"No, but it would still be . . . interesting."

Craig thought no more of it at the time, but there was a related conversation during the summer holidays.

He and Tom were fourteen now, and were required to attend Work Placement to offset school fees; so they only had a fortnight at James's.

The exciting news was that James had Changed: it wasn't just the clusters of spots; he demonstrated to his friends that he had grown hair, and could squeeze out a little semen.

"It won't be long till we can do that," said Craig, "And you'll have your wee Paul to do it for you."

"Aye," said Tom, with a little less enthusiasm than Craig would have expected.

He was looking at Craig; so was James; come to think of it, James had looked at him for most of his wank.

"Is there a smut on my nose?" he asked.

"No, you're still the same grugous Caigie," said Tom.

The next day they went to get their hair cut—not at a barber's, but, only the best being good enough for the Poxons, at a Muggle _Hairdresser_.

James had a standard British schoolboy off-the-ears, side-parting cut. Craig and Tom just had a quarter of an inch trimmed off.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like something a bit . . . smarter?" asked Mrs Poxon.

Craig and Tom kept their hair down to their shoulders. Come to think of it, most of the Chenny boys were similar. Doctor Fraud, the quack they had learned about in Muggle Studies, had probably written a book on the subject. Perhaps he was not entirely deluded: perhaps long hair gave troubled boys somewhere to hide.

That evening, he voiced the theory to the other two, and got laughed to scorn.

"Aye, it probably is silly," he told them, "And in your case, Tom, it's a good idea to show off as much of it as you can."

Tom laughed and said: "It just feels more comfortable—anyway your hair's okay too, Caigie."

Craig laughed too: "I don't think my wiry off-black can match your silky chestnut. I bet Paul loves it when you're snogging him."

"What's it like snogging?" asked James.

"Brilliant," said Tom "Hard to explain, really."

"Why don't you teach us, Tom?"

Craig burst in with: "No way! Tell James about what happened when you kissed me, Tam."

Tom laughed: "I got six on the arse and that Devil got send to Hell. Some kiss! I won't try it again!"

Craig strongly suspected that James was turning poofy. Maybe it was because all the spots, and hairs, and jizzum meant he had an urge to do _something_; and Craig and Tom were the only somethings around.

Perhaps James would turn normal when they went back to Hoggie, with girls everywhere.

Craig hoped so: he would stick with his pals until death; but he wasn't too keen on going around as the filling in a poof sandwich.

_**6**_

Poofs were on the agenda from Day One of their fourth year.

Everywhere, at every time, all sorts of boys—except Slytherins—were smiling into each other's eyes, whispering intimately and occasionally disappearing into toilets together.

It was soon apparent that Danny Jorrocks, with whom Craig and Tom were now sharing lessons, was at the forefront of a campaign to bring gayness into the open and normalise it.

Danny had sent a letter to all the first-years on the first day of term, inviting them to a meeting. Craig could guess what _that_ was about.

Then, with scarcely a week of term gone, an astonishing incident took place: in the dormitory, Adam Watts and James Poxon kissed goodnight.

At breakfast, it turned out that this wasn't about sex: it was a big romance, which got bigger and bigger by the day.

Adam and James went about holding hands, and this became a respected practice among several couples until Umbridge banned it.

Their romance remained platonic: the two boys became engaged to be married, James vowing to remain a virgin until after the ceremony, even though Adam continued to put it about quite a lot.

To Craig, so-called marriage was just one more lunacy to add to the other antics that the many poofs at Hogwarts got up to.

Amid the kaleidoscope of gayness, both Craig and Tom Changed.

After a couple of demonstrative wanks with Craig, Tom started visiting lavatory cubicles more often: his wee Paul proved willing and able to do it for him.

After a few weeks of wanking, Tom rejoined Craig for afternoon classes one day, and whispered jubilantly: "I just had wee Paul's arse!"

"What, the full shagging?" asked Craig.

"Yeah, I screwed him up to the hilt."

"Is there shite all over your tadger, Tam?"

"I didn't want to look. It was good. You should try it, Caigie."

"Piss off! Sounds filthy!"

Craig confined his sex-life to the showers, half-heartedly thinking of the prettier of the Hogwarts witches while he pummelled his member.

Looking back, Craig wondered if and when his sexual feelings for other boys would have emerged had it not been for the opportunistic licentiousness of Danny Jorrocks.

Incongruously, the magic moment occurred during an English class of Mrs Englishen-Latin. They were acting a Muggle play, and Craig and Danny were Offstage, waiting to Enter.

Offstage for this classroom was the book-cupboard; and no sooner had the door closed behind them, than Danny stretched up and kissed Craig on the lips.

Craig instinctively moved to sock Danny, but the younger boy had clasped his arms tightly about Craig, causing a sufficient impediment to allow Craig time for second thoughts—or rather, first rational thoughts.

He stood immobile as Danny's tongue entered his mouth, and played across his own tongue, giving rise to an amazing sense of simultaneous peace and excitement.

Craig's brain started working quickly: he was being kissed by another boy; and he was enjoying it. He wanted to take an active part, and pushed his own tongue inside Danny's mouth.

He was conscious that there was an imminent sexual urge—an urge which Danny detected as he groped inside Craig's clothing.

Then, suddenly, in what seemed like one single movement, Danny broke off the kiss, knelt, pulled out Craig's tadger, took it into his mouth, and started sucking.

Craig was now full of lust. His body jerked forward, seemingly of its own will, and his rock-hard penis sought Danny's throat. At the same time, his hands pressed the tousled head so it was tighter against him.

Wanking was never like this. His loins twitched uncontrollably, as he shot everything he had into Danny's mouth; and Danny, with every appearance of relish, swallowed the lot.

His head was spinning, and all he could manage was a "Er . . . thanks, D-Danny."

"Thanks yourself," said the boy, "Sorry for slurping."

He tucked Craig in so that they were ready for their cue.

That evening, Craig found a quiet spot to think things over.

Michael Scott, it had felt wonderful! He now understood the urges of Uncle Alec and David Baldwin, and could sympathise with them—too late, in each case.

But what had there been in it for Danny? Ah . . . he was a poof, and no doubt Uncle Alec and David Baldwin had hoped that Craig was a poof.

His tadger started thinking for itself as Craig daydreamt of regular sessions with Danny.

Then his innate friendliness took over: perhaps Danny would like to be sucked too. He certainly deserved _some_ reward.

Or perhaps he'd like to screw Craig up to the hilt.

He decided to send a wee note to Danny, telling him how grateful he was for the sucking, and offering to go into the cludgie with him to receive a good, proper shag.

Given the circumstances of their encounter, he couched his invitation poetically:

_To Dearest Salerio_

_Danny sucked me when we met,_

_Summoned from the chairs we sat in_

_To the cupboard of the set_

_Of Mrs English, also Latin._

_Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,_

_Say that health and wealth have chucked me,_

_Say I'm growing old, but add_

_Danny sucked me._

_Will Danny screw me when we meet,_

_Hiding in the place to shit in?_

_Will his tadger reach my seat,_

_And find a cosy nest to fit in?_

_Say I'm greedy, say I'm crappy,_

_Say that queers and poofs include me,_

_Say I'm mad, but I'd be happy_

_If Danny screwed me._

_From his Lorenzo_

He slipped the note into Danny's hand as they were leaving Charms the next day, and was delighted when Danny caught his eye at breakfast and gave him a smile and a nod.

Once Danny had had his screw, Craig would get another sucking.

He was dreaming of a rosy, jizzumy future, when the news broke: Danny Jorrocks had been sacked.

Shit!

Back to square one.

But one door closes, and . . . suddenly Harry Potter was in the limelight again.

The _Quibbler_ had published an interview which Craig and most of the other students believed: the Dark Lord had returned.

This was wonderful news, and instead of wanting to shoot the messenger, Craig suddenly found himself attracted to Harry Potter, who had proved himself the Dark Lord's equal—surely the two Lords would make peace and become allies in the great game.

Attraction became deeper, and by the summer term, Craig was admitting to himself that he was in _love_ with Harry.

Releasing the bollocky bree was one thing, but love . . . with love, the case was altered: notwithstanding great internal embarrassment, Craig started giving serious consideration to the possibility that he was a poof.

_**7**_

Craig's Work Placement that summer was within the warehouse of Gambol and Japes. He was pleased when his Section Leader turned out to be John Barter from the Orphanage.

After a day packing Giggling Gonks—or rather, re-packing, as there were several other alumni of Chenny on the team—Craig and John met that evening in the Muggle part of Reading. The first priority was some decent food: they were both in digs whose owners made a bit extra by retaining some of the Ministry's per-capita allowance.

As they sat in a restaurant by the river, stuffing themselves on Chinese food, their main topic of conversation was the big issue of the day: He Who Must Not Be Named.

Rocky's delight at Voldemort having broken his cover was fighting a direct emotional battle with the fact that he had been defeated by Harry Potter yet again.

For this reason, it was John who did most of the talking. He didn't favour one side or the other, simply wanting the fighting to end quickly. "I've got to make a career for myself," he said, "And I can't do that while there's a war going on. I wish they'd have one big battle and settle it; instead, You-Know-Who's stretching it out with guerrilla tactics."

"What do you mean?" asked Craig.

"They're killing a Muggle here, and a wizard there; crashing a Muggle bus here, and setting fire to a broomstick factory there. It's just prolonging things."

"Why is he killing Muggles? I mean, some Ministry people are enemies, but killing Muggles seems irrelevant—after all, they're his future subjects."

"Partly to tie up Ministry resources, but mainly out of sheer spite."

Craig was upset: this wasn't the sort of glorious comeback that he had expected of the Dark Lord. To actually _kill_ people . . . Craig had nothing against murder: but he had killed as the only way of fighting back; this was almost as though the Dark Lord was killing for _fun_.

There was something more immediate that puzzled him: "John," he said, "How come a bright boy like you never got to Hogwarts?"

"I think Kidd blocked it."

"Why?"

"More spite: I wouldn't let him do . . . you know—those things to me. Mr Corfield looked after me, but it was Kidd that made the Hogwarts decisions. Wasn't it wonderful when he died?"

"Happiest day of my life."

For the next few weeks, Craig juggled with mental images: the Dark Lord as Hero or Spitemonger; Harry Potter as Villain or Love Object.

Then there was Sex.

The young wizards and witches were kept separate at work, but much of John Barter's time was taken up with the prevention of his charges' incursions into the female areas—either for a quick fumble, or to make a date for the evening.

One day, Craig went to the cotton store, where he heard a sound. Behind a stack of boxes, he saw one young wizard lying prone while another lay on top, having his arse, as Tom would have put it.

Craig backed away, his mind reeling. This was what Tom did to Grindell. Would Craig like to do this to Harry? Yes, yes, yes. He fumbled inside his clothes and jizzumed after two strokes.

In the evenings, he took out a picture of Harry, torn from the Daily Prophet, and wanked himself off.

Yes, he was definitely a poof. Sometimes he looked in the mirror, thinking that he didn't look like a poof; but then, neither did Tom.

In August, he was released from work. James Poxon was now a respectable married boy, so there was no question of staying with him. Instead Craig and Tom agreed to revisit their roots, and spend the last two weeks of the holiday in Glasgow.

They met at Glasgow Central Floo Station, and embraced, sharing the happiness of reunion—two poofs hugging, thought Craig, but he and Tam were just good friends.

Tom had obviously been keeping racier company than Craig through the summer: his first act was to shoplift a lager four-pack, and march Craig down to the Green.

"It's ten o'clock in the morning, man!" said Craig.

"Just neck yer bevvy and be happy!" said Tom.

They spent a happy day wandering the streets in the sun, before finding lodgings in the Gorbals—the Muggle areas modern, but the magic area as it had been since Jewish witches and wizards had fled from the pogroms in East Europe—the shops were called Mendelssohn, Rabinovitz, Einhorn, and, of course, Kaufmann.

They spent the next day wandering and talking. Craig told Tom what Barter had said about the Dark Lord and his death eaters.

"You know, Craig," said Tom, "I'm thinking that even when he's won, the Dark Lord's not going to stop the slaughter."

"It makes me wonder who I'd rather won," said Craig.

This was such a revolutionary thought that they bought a football and exhausted themselves physically to get rid of their mental disturbance.

On the fifth day, they went to explore Tom's old home patch.

"You had a better park to play in than me," said Craig.

"It's big, aye," said Tom, "But it used to be infinite."

There were some magical children hanging around at the canal end. They went to talk to the only of them from Hogwarts: a first-year Slytherin called Paul Turnbull.

It turned out that Paul lived a few doors down from Tom's childhood home.

When it was dinner time, they walked off with Paul.

Craig had an idea: "Why don't you go and see your mam?" he asked Tom.

"She wouldn't want to see me," said Tom.

"She'd be glad to know you're alive, at least."

"She probably couldn't give a gnome-shite. Anyway, I don't want to lower myself by crawling back and she tells me to piss off."

"I'll sound her out, and you can lurk round the corner."

"Waste of time."

"We're on holiday; it'll be a laugh."

"Go on, then."

"Can I come?" asked Paul, "I'm on holiday too."

Tom's place was of the same sort as Craig's: a red stone tenement of four floors; Tom led them up to the third floor, where he lurked on the stone stairs with Paul. Only their heads were showing, and Craig would obscure Mrs Leggatt's view.

They could hear a cacophony of barking dogs and squalling babies even before Craig knocked on the door.

His knock increased the din, which became deafening when the door opened to reveal a scraggy woman who could have been any age from twenty to forty. There were a couple of toddlers in the hall behind her, a five-year-old girl, and a noisy mongrel. Craig could hear at least two crying infants.

"Whit yu wantin'?" yelled the woman.

"Mrs Leggatt?" asked Craig.

"She's gettin' the nappy doon her."

She slammed the door in his face.

"That was short and sweet," said Craig, "Tom, was that your . . .?"

"That was my sister," said Tom.

Craig couldn't think of anything to say.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, he noticed that one of the brass plates read _Macnair_.

"Look," he said, "I wonder if that's the Macnair who stopped Kidd expelling me."

"And got me the six hardest whacks in my life," said Tom, "You still owe me for that, Caigie."

Craig knocked on the door, which was answered by a huge man with three days-worth of whiskers bristling from his face. He looked at them in silence.

"Sorry, wrong Macnair," said Craig.

"What you mean wrong Macnair?" growled the man.

"I wanted to thank the man from the Ministry who helped me when I was ten."

"How helped you?"

"They wanted to send me to be a Muggle, and he wouldn't let them do that to a pureblood."

"I'm his brother. You haven't heard?"

"Heard?"

"He's in Azkaban."

"Oh, I'm sorry . . . Oh! Was he one of those with the Dark Lord in the Ministry?"

"Are your friends purebloods?"

"Tom is; I don't know about Paul, but he's in Slytherin."

"Good enough for me. Come down the Club. I'll buy you a drink."

"I've to be home for dinner," said Paul.

"We need our food too," said Craig.

"You can get some at the Club," said Macnair, and shouted to the inside: "I'm away down the Club, Hen."

A horrible screeching noise came from inside.

They said goodbye to Paul, and walked with Macnair to a building labelled:

_Maryhill &amp; Ruchill Working Wizard's Club_

_Premises Continuously Monitored by Ministry of Magic_

They passed the doorman, who favoured Macnair with a surly nod.

Immediately, a loud klaxon sounded, and a voice shouted: _Bastart Alarm!_

"Didn't they teach you to read at the zoo?" said the doorman, indicating a sign:

_Wands, Potions, Amulets __**MUST**__ be Surrendered at Door_

_Knives and Guns __**ONLY**__ to be used in Toilets_

Macnair, Craig and Tom handed their wands over to the doorman, and the three entered the clubroom.

This was a dark, low-ceilinged room, with benches round the sides, and, covering the floor, three dozen tables seating eight. Perhaps the club could have accommodated four hundred people, but currently there were only a quarter of that number.

The room was smoky and noisy, but not rowdy, as the notices had led Craig to expect. It was one o'clock. Some were here on their lunch break; some starting their daily epic; a few solitaries moped over their drinks.

Macnair bought the two boys each a half-pint of Heatherbeer—_nappy_ in the vernacular—and a mutton pie, then sat them on a side table, and proceeded to grill Craig, who gave him an expurgated account of events at Chenny.

"So Walden looked after the wee pureblood, did he," he said, ruffling Craig's hair, "He would: his heart's in the right place. He had all the advantages, though; they couldn't afford to send me to Hogwarts as well.

_You were too bloody stupid_ thought Craig, but merely said: "I'm sorry your brother's away, Mr Macnair."

"So is he," laughed Macnair, "And when he gets out, he'll be thanking his wee brother,"

"Are you going to _rescue_ him?" whispered Craig.

Macnair tapped the side of his nose. "Say no more, Craig—Craig what?"

"Craig Alexander, Sir."

"A bonny name for a bonny callant!" said Macnair, pinching Craig's cheek.

He had been drinking pints of nappy with firewhisky chasers, and was slightly bluitered.

Craig was embarrassed, and let his eyes wander round the room. They came to rest on an old man—one of the solitaries—who seemed vaguely familiar. After some consideration, Craig decided it was probably one of the uncles—_a rare survivor_ he thought, sardonically.

Macnair was not the only one who was getting fou and unca happy: at a nearby table, a party of ten were squeezed together, laughing, shouting out bawdy jokes, and sometimes singing.

One woman, especially, was particularly raucous. She was a hideous, ancient hag, and was currently yelling: "Ah've hud mair coke thun Himsel's cursed Muggles."

Craig guessed that _coke_ referred to men rather than the Muggle drug.

But Macnair was grilling him again: "Where are you from?" he asked.

"Garrioch Road," said Craig.

"There's a good few of the right sort there," said Macnair, "Hey! You're not related to Mary-Ann are ye?"

"My mother was called Mary-Ann Alexander. She was sent to St Monica's."

"Aye . . . aye; I mind that. She was there for two weeks; there was an A1 booze-up the day she came back."

"When was this."

"It would be about five or six years since. She's a rare one for the booze. And the men too. Just think, Craig, any man in this room could be your father! I could be your father!"

Craig was upset and repulsed.

"I think it's time to go, Tam," he said.

"Aye," said Tam.

"Are you off?" said Macnair, "I'll be away home too, but I'll give you a wee treat, Craig, before we say goodbye. 'Mon."

They collected their wands, left the Club, and walked as far as the main road.

Macnair was in high spirits. "I'm a good organiser," he told Craig—he'd ignored Tom entirely—I make a plan and do it. I'm going to say goodbye, Craig; give you some advice; and give you your treat."

He kissed Craig on the lips, squeezing his bum.

"Goodbye, Craig," he said, "There's only two spells you need in life: Confunding and Disapparition."

He drew his wand, picked his moment, and let fly a Confundus.

An unremarkable man crossed the road into the path of a car. He was thrown in the air and landed so as to be run over by a bus.

The inevitable woman screamed. Macnair laughed, said "Come over tomorrow, Craig!" and Disapparated with a loud CRACK!

Craig froze for a moment; then took Tom's arm. "Walk away quietly," he said, "They won't be looking for a pair of Muggle chavs."

They heard the crack! of the Ministry men arriving, but carried on walking without looking round.

Without planning anything, they found a quiet spot by the canal, sat on a bench and burst into tears.

_**8**_

"Roots!" said Craig, bitterly.

"That's our bloody roots, man," said Tom.

"Murdered."

"Just for fun; just for being a Muggle. Shall we go back to Hogwarts rightaway, Caigie?"

"Yeah, let's forget Glasgow; now and forever."

"We'll tell David and Rebecca tonight."

David and Rebecca ran the bed-and-breakfast.

"It's all gone tits up," said Craig, "Not just the murder: there's me mammy. I spent years thinking they'd let her out one day, and me and you could stay there and have a real home; and all the time she was in bloody Garrioch Road, living her bloody selfish life and not giving a shite for me."

"I'm sorry, Caigie," said Tom.

"And just to rub salt in, I saw one of my Mam's men, and when that pig Macnair kissed me, I got a flashback. I'd seen Uncle Eddie in that shithole of a club and I remembered the feel of stubble on my face. He used to kiss me when I was about four, and probably do other things."

"Oh God, Caigie."

"And your sister, Tam. It's probably as well you didn't get to see your mam."

"I saw her alright."

"What?"

"She was the one mouthing off about all the cock she'd had."

"Oh, Tam!"

The lads broke down again. It was a good job that there were no Muggle youths to catch two fifteen-year-olds weeping and hugging each other.

They went to the Muggle cinema, and found a good thriller called _Fargo_ to take their minds off things.

They left the cinema and bought themselves kebabs. Such is the resilience of youth that Craig was able to joke: "You know the very worst bit about today, Tam?"

"What?"

"It was the mutton pie."

Tom laughed and told him: "They've always said that Scotch mutton pies are Heaven or Hell, and nothing in between."

As they walked home, Tom said: "We can't go back to Hogwarts tomorrow, Craig."

"No," said Craig, "We've got to do it."

They entered their lodgings to find David wearing an apron, and disporting himself with a feather duster—known in Scotland as a _tickle-yer-arse_.

"Hello lads," he said brightly, "You're back early. Have you had your tea?"

"Yes thank you, David," said Tom.

"Well, come and have some cocoa and biscuits."

He led them into the private bit, where his wife greeted them and went off to heat some milk.

"Have you had a good day?" asked David.

The two boys looked at each other.

"Well . . ." said Craig.

"It was awful," said Tom, impulsively, "Me and Craig became friends in an orphanage, and today we each found out that we were there because our mothers were only interested in liquor and men. Both our mothers are still in the same places—places that should have been our homes."

"I wish we'd been Jews like you," said Craig, "There were no Jews in the orphanage. Jews believe in Family. Nothing can split up a Jewish family."

"Except love for fellow humans," said a voice.

The boys jumped, and looked round,

Sitting in the corner, reading, was an old man. He looked like a stereotype—but some stereotypes occur quite often in real life. This man had a skullcap, and a robe that was of an unwizardly cut. He had a hooked nose and a look of intense intelligence.

"This is my father, Abraham," said David, with pride, "Dad, here's Tom and Craig."

"Ah, the Hogwarts boys, seeing the city of their birth," said the old man.

"Dad was talking about my mother," said David.

"My Leah," said Abraham, "My Leah of the beautiful soul who died because she loved her fellow humans."

"I'm so sorry, Mr Abraham," said Craig, "How did she die?"

"In nineteen thirty-nine, the Muggles had a great war, and those Germans who were consorting with Dark Wizards, started bombing Glasgow."

He was interrupted by the arrival of Rebecca, bringing the refreshments.

"Dad's telling the lads about my mother," said David.

"How I wish she were here now," said Rebecca, "And how she would have been proud of her husband, son and grandson."

"And daughter-in-law," said David, kissing his wife.

"I wish she were here too," said Craig, "We'd love to have met her, wouldn't we Tom?"

"Yes," said Tom, "Did your Leah die with a bomb, Mr Abraham?"

"She did, my son," said the old man, "The wizard areas were protected from the bombs, but she wouldn't let innocent people suffer, and she trained as a nurse at the Western Infirmary. And one night that would have been dark had not the docks been ablaze, her life was ended."

"So you grew up without a mother too, David," said Tom.

"But with a grandmother who was everything a mother should be," said David.

"Yes," said Abraham, "My beloved papa, who arrived from Lithuania with nothing, and cared for his family so well, was taken too soon, but my beloved mother and I raised David to be the fine man you see before you."

"And David and Rebecca presented you with a grandson."

"Yes, a beautiful, bright, happy, noble-spirited boy who has delighted my old age; but, alas, my seed will end with him."

"Why's that?" asked Craig.

"He's not the marrying kind, Craig," said David.

"You never know" said Craig, "Is that Leah?"

"Yes, may she be blessed forever," said the old man.

They all looked at a studio photograph of a lovely young woman, who smiled and waved happily at them.

"I think I was right," said Craig, "Nothing can split up a Jewish family."

But the old man did not respond: he had fallen asleep.

Craig and Tom went upstairs to Tom's room, where they reviewed the events of the day, and made their plans for the morrow.

Then Tom went up to his own room. His mind should have been in a whirl, but he went straight into peaceful sleep. Perhaps it was Nature's way of helping him recover from stress; and perhaps it was the cocoa.

_**9**_

Next morning was wet.

This seemed to Craig and Tom to be a good omen: they could wear their big coats without looking odd.

They went to the gigantic supermarket that they had targeted. Tom went in first: his intention was to ask for a job. Craig hung about outside for ten minutes, then went in, picked up a basket, and started slowly selecting items, but always not too far from the booze section.

After a further ten minutes, a siren went off.

Good old Tom!

People didn't run: they just looked at each other questioningly.

Then a voice came on the speaker system telling them that there was a fire alarm, and they must evacuate the store.

Not only did people not run, but they moved out with some reluctance.

Craig walked slowly too, pocketing a bottle of forty-year-old Scotch; and, as a bonus, a second bottle.

He proceeded casually to the meeting-point, where a few minutes later, he was joined by Tom.

"Well done ma wee Tammie!" said Craig.

"And well done my wee Caigie!" said Tom, on being shown the two bottles.

"How'd you do it?"

"Piece of piss. They took me to a room, and I clocked all the fire alarms on the way. They gave me a pissy-arse form, and I filled in Macnair's name and address. Then they showed me out, but I nipped back into the staff bog, and walked out calm as you like, smashed the glass, and pressed the tit."

"Good man!"

"And on the way out, I got us a little extra."

He disgorged a dozen mobile phones and hand-held electronic games from his inside pockets.

"A little extra money always comes in use," he said.

"It's going well, isn't it?" said Craig.

"Now for the big one!" said Tom.

They headed out West and bought some sandwiches and Irn-Bru from the mini-supermarket.

They went to the canal, and ate their sandwiches on the move, surveying the layout carefully, so that they would find the best spot.

The rain had cleared, and it was a fine, sunny day—another good omen, surely.

At one o'clock, they entered Macnair's close.

"I hope to God we don't meet that woman," said Tom, but they were lucky, and had a clear run.

When Macnair answered the door his face lit up.

"Ah, it's ma wee friend Craig," he said.

If ever lust was written on a face, thought Craig, he was looking at it.

"Mr Macnair," he said, "You were so kind to us yesterday, that we got these for you. It's a lovely day and we wondered if we could all go down the canal, and you could tell us about life in Glasgow."

"Aye that's fine," he said, and the smile which didn't quite go with his grim features broadened.

"I'm away out, Hen," he called, prompting the same unearthly screeching noise.

They led him to a bench on the towpath, where he magicked the security caps off the bottles and took his first sip.

"It's good stuff, right enough," he said, "Whisky was invented by wizards and stolen by Muggles."

"When the Dark Lord comes into his own, the Muggles'll do the work and the magic world'll take the whisky—and the profits."

"You're right, Craig." Sip.

"And it won't be just whisky."

"You're right again, ma bonny callant. Did you like ma wee treat yesterday?"

"Brilliant, Mr Macnair, but there's one thing that bothers me."

"What's that?" Sip.

"Since the Dark Lord's going to be ruling the Muggles, weren't you destroying his property?"

Macnair laughed, sipped again, and said: "Curse you for an idiot! In the first place, there are plenty of Muggles to go round; secondly, it shows the mudbloods and blood traitors at the Ministry that we mean business; thirdly, it keeps morale up and shows all of wizardkind that putting a few in Azkaban is insignificant; and fourthly, the Dark Lord likes his followers to enjoy themselves."

Craig was staggered, but then immediately _not_ staggered: Macnair had not thought up this cogent analysis by himself: it had been drilled into him by someone with a few more brain cells.

"Have you done this sort of thing before, Mr Macnair?" he asked.

Macnair gave a long account of the sort of things he had done to Muggles, and the things he had heard about from other wizards. The catalogue included several fatalities, some things that were pathetic, and some that Craig had to admit were amusing.

The topics of conversation broadened to include stories and gossip from most of the wizard communities in Glasgow—but none, of course from the Gorbals.

They all had to go for a piss at times, and there was some convenient greenery not too far away to accommodate them.

When Tom went off, Macnair approached Craig confidentially. "Craig," he said, "How about losing your pal, and you and me have some fun?"

Craig nearly giggled as he imagined himself fluttering his eyelashes, and saying _Why, what can you mean Mr Macnair?_ like a girl in a Muggle film. He contented himself with asking: "What sort of fun?"

"Men's things," said Macnair, leaning over to tap Craig's balls lightly.

"I've never done that sort of thing before," said Craig, allowing himself the tiniest flutter.

"It's good fun, and it's the sort of thing real men do."

"Alright, then; anything for a star follower of Himself; and I mean _anything_ Mr Macnair. Don't say a word: leave it with me."

"Good lad!"

Tom came back, and the conversation became more general.

Macnair was drunk, but well in control. His capacity was extraordinary.

"We could have done with that Sleeping Draught," said Craig, while Macnair was relieving himself.

"Don't worry, son" said Tom, "He can't last forever."

And this was true: around four o'clock, Macnair keeled over.

"Tom's going to our hotel," said Craig, "And you and me are going to a private place to relax."

"Private plashe," grunted Macnair.

With difficulty, they got him to his feet, and staggered off along the towpath.

They stopped to check that all was clear.

"Private plashe; nishe arshe," grunted Macnair.

"On the count of three," said Craig, "One . . . Two . . .THREE!"

They pushed Macnair into the canal.

There was a biggish splash, and Macnair bobbed about for a bit. Then he went under. He was too drunk to call out.

They watched until the last bubbles had surfaced, then set off cheerfully down the towpath.

"And the irony is that he was right all along," said Craig.

"How do you mean?" asked Tom.

"Muggles believe that wizards float; and what we've just seen proves that Muggles are complete fools."

"I'll tell you the real irony," said Tom.

"Tell me."

"He died just when he was about to get a good job offer."

_**10**_

Conscious of a job well done, they went to the local hamburger caff, before walking back towards the Gorbals.

"You know what we should do, Tam?" said Craig.

"What?"

"We should dedicate today to that brave Jewish witch who gave up her life to save gentile Muggles."

"Yes; and perhaps there'll be a psychic resonance, so all the Muggles who Macnair _would_ have killed dedicate their extra years of life to kind Leah too."

They had one and a quarter bottles of whisky left and tried a sip. It was nice, but much too fiery, even though the label described it as _Rich, sweet and creamy toffee with fresh fruit notes . . . Rounded with vanilla, sweet oak and fruitiness_.

"It's probably better with ginger," said Tom, so they bought some more Irn-Bru, and some paper cups.

They knew that British Muggle kids are like wizard kids in that, if something is forbidden, they _must_ do it. They intended to use the whisky as a boy-magnet, thus creating a market for their electronic goods.

The first lot they came to was too old and had an aura of aggression; the second lot had girls present; but, like Goldilocks, the third lot was just right: their own age and spontaneously friendly.

It was a little green park, quite near the Gorbals; there were eight boys, sometimes kicking a football around, and sometimes slouching.

They invited Craig and Tom to join in, and during one of the slouches, Tom poured out a whisky and Irn-Bru. Neither of them thought it very nice. Their new friends tried it and their surface enthusiasm was clearly put on to ensure continued access to the forbidden fruit.

Then one of the boys said that his dad mixed whisky with coke, and a crack shoplifting team was despatched.

They came back breathless, but laden, and everyone agreed that whisky and coke was quite a good drink.

In the subsequent warm atmosphere, the two wizards offered their goods for sale at a quarter of the shop price.

The drawback to the plan was that none of the lads had any money, but this problem was solved by the offer of free credit: the lads all promised to come back with the money on the next day.

No sooner had things been settled, than Tom said: "Caigie, they've got less than we have."

"Aye," said Craig, and he refunded the boy who had dashed home for a tenner, and announced that all debts were cancelled.

In celebration of this, the shoplifters went forth again, this time returning with eight cans of sweet cider, which they rightly supposed would make a refreshing alternative to whisky and coke.

In the midst of the boozing, clumsy kickabouts of the football took place, leading to giggling play-fights.

One of the boys, a sandy-haired specimen called, eponymously, Sandy took a fancy to Tom, keeping an arm around him as much as possible.

"Ye're a guid frien', Tam," he said, "You done all that fer us an' didna tak a penny."

He had transparently fallen in love, but not with the deep love that Craig felt for Harry Potter: Sandy had only known Tom for a few hours.

His ritornello was that Tom was their best friend and they'd do anything for him.

He was a poof, decided Craig. _In vino veritas_. What he meant was that _he'd_ do anything for Tom.

As the hour grew late, and the liquor ran out, the lads started drifting off, and Craig and Tom made a move.

"I'll see you to your door," said Sandy; and both wizards laughed and said _Okay_, knowing that Sandy's attention would be diverted to something else as soon as they reached the boundary of the Zone.

All this time Sandy had his arm around Tom's shoulders, but as they walked, he democratically put his other arm around Craig's. Craig reciprocated, and hugged Sandy's shoulder murmuring: "Your my best friend, too, Sandy."

He felt as though he were floating along, but found it convenient to let Sandy take some of his weight.

Then, for some reason, he was in the middle, with an arm around each of his friends.

"An old friend and a new friend!" he murmured.

"No need to shout; I'm here," said Tom.

In no time, they covered the two miles to the edge of the magical area.

"Goodbye, new friend," said Craig.

But they sailed through.

Tom stopped them.

"Craig," he said.

"There's ma wee Tam!" said Craig.

"Craig! Look where we are!"

"Not far to go now."

"Look where we are with Sandy!"

"Aye, he's a goodgie boy. He's our nice new frien' "

"Craig! Concentrate! We're in the Zone with Sandy, and he's being normal.

Suddenly Craig was a bit more focused.

"Good Lord!" he said, "I mean ge-ge-generic Lord, not the Dark Lord."

"Can you see those buildings, Sandy," asked Tom.

"Aye, I'm no that fou," said the boy.

"Can you read that shop?"

"Er, Bernard—" began Craig.

"Not you, dope!"

"Bernard Finkelstein, From Rags to Ceremonial Robes," said Sandy.

"Craig! What are we going to do?" said Tom.

"For God's sake!" said Craig, "Kiss him, you idiot!"

"Er . . . Kiss?" said Sandy.

Craig was suddenly full of energy. He bundled both his friends down a dark close, and left them to it while he went further down for a piss.

When he got back, Tom and Sandy were kissing—not very passionately, but more than a peck.

He felt a wave of affection for Sandy. Any boy who was bowled over by Tom was okay. He deserved a treat—not the sort of treat that Macnair dished out—but not any more—a nice treat.

He went behind Sandy, put his arms round his waist, and pulled down his tracksuit and pants.

He reached round and found a nice, stiff penis.

He started to wank it, then changed his mind: Sandy had fallen for Tom, so he would enjoy it more if Tom did it.

"Sandy," he said, "My friend Tom requests the honour of playing with your cock—I mean coke."

To his surprise, Tom immediately sank to his knees. He was going to suck Sandy. That was a noble thing to do. Love deserved a reward—no, not noble: Tom was a poof, so he enjoyed sucking boys. Danny Jorrocks had enjoyed sucking him in the cupboard.

For some reason, the thought of being sucked by Danny changed something in his body, but he couldn't think what.

Tom was making slurpy noises, and Sandy's arse was twitching. There was enough light for him to see that it was a good-looking arse. He wondered if it had freckles. He reached out his hands and felt it. The skin was smooth and stretched tight over firm flesh. He wondered if Harry's arse was like this. There was something about Harry's arse; what was it?

He played with Sandy's arse for a bit before he remembered: he wanted to _have_ it; to put his cock—no, coke—inside it—no, inside Harry's arsehole.

He couldn't see Sandy's arsehole, so he bent down to have a look, but that just made things darker. He started to grope for it, but was diverted by the thought that while he was down there, he might as well kiss Sandy.

He kissed one cheek, giggled, said out loud _Pok ma hone!_ and kissed the other one. Then he started out to kiss the arse all over. As his nose crossed the crack, he thought, with another giggle: _That's_ the way to find an arsehole! Perhaps Sandy would fart to guide his nose in like a set of harbour lights.

He didn't need farts: his nose butted against something crinkly and an astonishing neef came to him. He breathed in really deeply to make sure that he hadn't imagined it. No. It was more like whisky than whisky: Rich, sweet and creamy toffee with fresh fruit notes . . . Rounded with vanilla, sweet oak and fruitiness

This was a brand new, totally unexpected, experience.

"Keep yer arse still!" he called, as he tried to keep his nose in touch. The arse was bucking and swaying like a boat in a storm. Oh! Sandy was coming, of course. Craig was on his feet in an instant. He wanted to see what it looked like. There was not much to see: just the back of Tom's head.

Then Tom moved his head away, and stood up. He'd swallowed the lot like Danny Jorrocks. _Sorry for slurping_. But _Tom_ hadn't slurped. Craig was proud for his friend. Tom had taken six for him.

Sandy had pulled his pants up, worse luck, and Tom was making some arrangements with him.

Suddenly, they were at the door of their lodging. Thank goodness access was controlled by magic, not keys: he'd never be able to fit the key in the lock. What did that remind him of? Oh yes: fitting his coke into Harry's lock. Lock's didn't have that neef, though.

They reached Tom's door.

"Night-night, Tom," he said.

"I'll see you to your room," said Tom.

"I can manage one floor!"

He kissed Tom on the lips and turned towards the stairs.

"Hang about," he said, "I want to see if I can taste Danny's jizzum—Sandy's jizzumy jizzum."

He kissed Tom again, swirling his tongue around inside Tom's mouth."

"No jizzum," he said, "But you're still a beautiful, bright, happy, noble-spirited boy, rounded with vanilla."

He turned towards the stair again, and climbed a few steps. Then he found it more convenient to use his hands as well, but this slowed him down, and the stairs seemed to go on forever.

At last he was at the top. He got to his feet. Everything was still swaying, but there was his door.

He opened the door, and was thunderstruck: there were two naked boys in his bed. They were sitting up reading, their bodies pressed closely together.

A hallucination!

He closed his eyes, knowing the boys would be gone when he opened them again.

But they were still there. He felt dizzy, but tried to focus his eyes. One of them was . . . was . . .

"ANTHONY!" he said.

Then the open window attracted him. He walked across the room—walked for miles; this was a huge room—and vomited out the window.

He had a sudden moment of clarity: he knew he was going to pass out after three steps.

He took three steps, and lay sideways across the interloping boys.

Craig was asleep.

_**11**_

There were voices.

They were whispering about him; perhaps decrying him because he was gay, and loved Harry.

No, that was paranoia; they wouldn't do that: they were gay themselves; everyone in the dorm: James and Adam, getting married; Tom and Craig, best friends.

Then an insight: all that flirting, and having girlfriends: Michael Weeks was _like_ a girl. As camp as a row of pink tents, as Danny had said. Danny had slurped. Did Michael slurp? Did slurping make you more or less gay?

A dorm full of gay boys.

Mrs Englishen-Latin had taught them syllogism, and one came into his mind:

_All Gays are clever_

_All Ravenclaws are clever_

_Therefore, All Ravenclaws are Gay_

Except, it wasn't _All_: that would be stereotyping, like a Jew with a hooked nose. The Wandering Jew. Lithuania. But it was the pretty girl that had wandered, and now she was in the realm of Death like Macnair, who might have been his father; and Kidd who _should_ have been his father. Tom didn't have a father either. He had sniffed Tom's arsehole.

He was a tad more awake. He had sniffed—and enjoyed it. Maybe it was another boy, though: a red-haired boy. What was he called? Tom would know.

"Tom?" he said, and a sort of dull headache seemed to infiltrate the rest of his body.

"Morning, Craig!" said a strange voice. It was a boy's voice, coming from right next to him.

He reached out and touched a naked body.

He touched himself, and was suddenly more awake. He was naked; naked in bed with a naked boy.

He opened his eyes, which immediately filled with needle-pains to add to the headache. His whole body seemed to be suffocating in a tight press of cotton wool.

He concentrated and saw that the boy was not a stranger at all, but a friend: Anthony Goldstein: Anthony was a year ahead of him in Ravenclaw.

"Morning, Anthony," he croaked, "I remember now. I saw you last night. You on holiday too?"

"I live here," said Anthony.

"Oh."

"Are _you_ on holiday?"

"Yes. Oh! You must be the beautiful, bright, happy, noble-spirited boy!"

"You've been talking to Abraham," said a _third_ voice.

"I remember now," repeated Craig, raising his head to look.

"Gillies, isn't it?" he said.

"Patrick Gillies at your service," said a young man with a heart-shaped baby-face.

Gillies had been in Gryffindor; four years ahead of Craig.

There was a sudden urge.

"I need a piss," said Craig.

"The _En_ _Suite_'s, over there" said Anthony.

Craig got out of bed gingerly, every movement giving him grief, and went into the bathroom.

He stood in front of the loo for ages thinking: Syllogism:

_Ye canna push wi' a stauner_

_Ah've a helluva stauner_

_Therefore, Ah canna push_

_All Gays are Ravenclaws_ he thought; but _that_ wasn't true: there was Gillies from Gryffindor and, he hoped, Harry—no, don't think about Harry.

At length he managed to piss out a few gallons, and his erection went down further as he vomited a tablespoonful of some green, oily, bitter, acidic substance.

But his erection came back with full force as he was washing his face, and the joys of masturbation became relevant. He didn't seem to have had sex through the night . . . unless—but his arse felt unravished. But, then, how would a virgin know?

"Why am I in the nude?" he asked, as he re-entered what he now saw was a gigantic bedroom.

Both boys were gaping at his stauner.

"You were defiled with vomit and piss," said Anthony.

"Piss?"

"I'm afraid you'd comprehensively pissed yourself."

Craig laughed: "And you let me into your bed?"

"We washed you."

"Anything else? Did you diddle my bits or have my arsehole?"

"No—not that we weren't tempted."

"You're a dark dragon, Anthony: there was all that gay stuff last year, and you never joined in."

"I'm a one-man guy. I fell in love with Gils in first-year, and that was it."

"Do you live here too, Gils?"

"Sadly, no," said Gillies, "Me and Ant got back last night from two weeks in Scandinavia, and I'm here for a couple of days before going back to work."

"Where do you work?"

"With the Magical Fishing Authority in Whitby."

"You must really look forward to the school holidays."

"Yeah, though I manage to get back for Hogsmeade days."

"And meet in the bogs at the Three Broomsticks, no doubt," smiled Craig, remembering some cavortings that he had observed in the past.

"Meet in my _room_ at the Three Broomsticks," smiled Gillies.

"I'm happy for you both," said Craig, "Now, if you'll lend me a dressing-gown, and give me my dirty clothes, I'll go to my room."

"Take that dressing-gown," said Anthony, "Get a change of clothes, and come and shower here, rather than in the public bathrooms—they'll be full of chapmen. I'll clean your clothes with magic, but they'll take some time to dry."

"Magic?" said Craig, "Oh, how did your O.W.L's go?"

"Pretty well, thanks."

"Pretty well, Mr Modest-pants!" laughed Gillies, "He got Outstandings in everything."

"I wasn't being modest," said Anthony, "Anyway, you did pretty well too."

"_Three_ Outstandings."

"Considering you spent all your time sucking little boys' schmeckels."

"Which was how we met."

The lovers smiled into each other's eyes.

Craig left the room laughing—not just from the infectious happiness of his friends, but also because, even if Abraham's seed ended in Anthony, Anthony's own seed was being put to magnificent use. He liked Patrick Gillies.

Tom was sitting on Craig's bed.

"I was a bit worried," he said, "But I thought you might have slept in the chair and gone for a walk to clear your head. How is it?"

"Getting better."

"You _were_ in a state. Do you remember much?"

"It's all a blur. Tom did I really sniff your arsehole, or was it a dream?"

"It was Sandy's arsehole."

"Oh yeah; that was the name; nice red-haired boy."

"Where _did_ you spend the night, Caigie?"

"I went up an extra floor, and entered the wrong room."

"Jings! Was there anyone in there?"

"Come up and see."

He led Tom upstairs, and went to the shower, leaving Tom to make the same voyage of discovery as he had,

The warm water left him feeling back to mid-season form.

He left the water running, and the lovers got out of bed to shower together. They both had standers, and Patrick's tadger was dribbling pussy-jizzum.

"They're sweet aren't they?" said Tom.

"All these years, I've been playing Wizard Chess with Anthony, and I never dreamt he had that depth of passion," said Craig.

"And that family background."

"It's a fine bedroom they've got isn't it?"

"It's an old artist's studio; a fine bedroom for two fine boys, Craig."

Craig and Tom had rooms that were little more than cupboards.

"Do you think they'll be together forever?" asked Tom.

"I hope so," smiled Craig, "That'd make two fewer miserable folk in the world."

"Aye.

They sat, thinking their thoughts for a while.

"Tam?"

"What is it Caigie?"

"Did I really wank over those Muggle phones and things, or was it a dream?"

"Definitely a dream."

"And did I . . . actually kiss you?"

"Yes, that was real."

"And was that Sandy involved too?"

"Not exactly: you were trying to taste his jizzum in my mouth."

There was silence, except for the running water.

Anthony and Gillies were probably soaping each other with tenderness. Craig imagined the strings of jizzum being washed down the plughole. He wondered if Tom was thinking the same.

Then there came into his mind an image that Tom _wouldn't_ have had: that arse in the warehouse of Gambol and Japes, bouncing up an down on top of a quivering boy. Then the image changed to Craig's arse giving it to Harry Potter.

Craig had an iron stauner again. He should have had a wank in the shower,

"Tam?"

"What is it Caigie?"

"Last night . . . all that sex stuff. I feel a bit dirty."

"There's no need. Everyone goes daft when they've had a bevy. No-one's gunna call you a poof for it."

"No; I'm not bothered about that. I feel dirty because I betrayed someone. I _am_ a poof, but a special sort of poof."

"What, you only like hunchbacked Chinamen, or something?"

"I only like Harry Potter."

"Understandable, now we're off the Dark Side. He's Voldemort's number one enemy."

"It's not sudden, Tam, I started loving him when we were still hoping he'd be Voldemort's ally. We were mad, weren't we."

"It's how we were brought up, Caigie, pal."

"Our bloody, bollocking roots."

"What yer gunna do about Harry?"

"I don't know—talk to him; owl him. I'll see how the land lies. Everything'll be different with Umbridge gone."

"Everything'll be better."

"Aye."

Anthony and Patrick were a long time in the shower, but eventually emerged, their smiles broad, and their tadgers limp and clean.

Anthony insisted that they breakfasted in the family quarters, rather than the public dining room.

Rebecca was busy in the kitchen, and David had waiting duties, but the old man was there.

"Good morning to you, Abraham Ben-Isaac," said Anthony.

"Good morning to you, Anthony Ben-David," said the old man, kissing his grandson.

Craig was intensely moved by the sight and sound of the old man giving the same warm, family greeting to Patrick Gillies—as warm as if he had been a beloved grandaughter-in-law, rather than the boy who was terminating the house of Goldstein.

A Dark Wizard would have killed Patrick; a good wizard would have hated him; but Abraham bowed before the universal power of love for which his wife had sacrificed her life half a century earlier.

A tear came into Craig's eye and, glancing at Tom, he saw a mistiness there too.

"We're getting to be a right pair o' softies," said Tom.

"Nonsense!" said Craig, "We're a pair of good Scots, getting value for money out of our hankies."

Abraham noticed the incident, and said: "You're good boys. Are you friends with Anthony?"

"We _were_ housemates—" said Craig.

"But now we're good friends," completed Tom.

After breakfast David and Rebecca joined the company.

Tom—perforce, as Craig could hardly remember him—told the Goldsteins about Sandy.

"Should we do anything?" he concluded, "Notify the Ministry, or something?"

"The Ministry cares little enough for _skilled_ Muggle-borns," said David, "And for a Late-starter, virtually nothing. The Outreach section consists of two old dears put out to grass."

"But we should do _something_," said Tom, "He should be shown his gifts, and, besides, if he's not, he'll go to Hell with drink and drugs."

"Good boy!" said Abraham, "Save one and save everyone; and who should we save but the child who's fallen into our laps? Bring him to see me, and I'll talk to the Kosimrabbi."

"What did you make of him, Tom?" asked David

"Well, I'm afraid we all had a little too much to drink last night," said Tom, as Rebecca tutted, "But I think he's an ordinary boy, brought up, as Muggles often are, without any basis for living their lives."

"Shifting sands," said the old man.

"Without any real moral code," said Tom.

"Because of so-called Liberty. There is no such thing as a Moral Imperative, as imperatives imply loss of liberty."

"The only special thing about him," continued Tom, "Is that I don't think he's the marrying kind—though I don't think he'd admit it to himself or anyone else."

"That is another gift that he should be shown," said Abraham.

God! thought Craig, was there no end to the old man's understanding and tolerance?

"I wish I'd been born in the Gorbals, instead of Maryhill," he said.

"Oh you're awake, Caigie," grinned Tom, "Well, after yesterday, we're out of Maryhill forever."

"And into the Gorbals forever!" said Anthony.

Not just the Ravenclaws and the Goldsteins, but the room and the universe seemed to give sighs of happiness.

There was a beat, then David asked: "When are you seeing Sandy again?"

"Twelve o'clock," said Tom.

"Bring him to me," said Abraham.

This should have been easy, but there were complications: Sandy turned up with two other boys; and he wouldn't look at Tom, preferring to talk to Craig, who guessed that the two supernumeraries had latched on to Sandy because of the chance of meeting the two miraculous providers of booze and toys.

As for Sandy's attitude to Tom: Craig guessed that he was ashamed, not of knowing two poofs, but of snogging one of them.

They concocted a story about a well-paid, part-time job available for Sandy. The boy wanted Craig to take him for the interview, but Craig insisted that Tom did it—the sooner Sandy recovered his natural inclinations towards Tom, the better.

When they had left, Craig and the two boys played football.

They were called Tyler and Alfie.

Honestly! Had the Scots no sense of their national heritage?

As part of Muggle Studies, Craig and Tom had found a newspaper giving the hundred most popular names for new-born babies in Scotland.

There was no Kenneth, Duncan, Bruce, Wallace or Douglas; fourteen Stuart monarchs of Scotland could make no impression. Alexander had supplanted that most Scottish of names Alasdair—maybe because the later had about sixteen variant spellings.

Obviously, given the current Prince of Wales, there was no Charles, but Charlie appeared—though this was probably as much to do with the drug as with the Bonny Prince.

The three of them kicked a football about.

When Craig made a spectacularly egregious error, Tyler shouted: "Use that stauner for a walking-stick, yer spazz."

It was true: he hadn't wanked for days, and his trackie-bottoms were like a tent. Alfie had a spectacularly glamorous arse, which didn't help.

"Sorry lads, I've got to get rid of it," he said, heading for a secluded spot.

He was surprised and delighted when they other two went with him.

The leafy corner was clearly a popular resort of discretion: it reeked of piss and there were a couple of Frenchies visible.

The other two had their tadgers out before Craig. It seemed as though the worldwide tradition of the communal wank applied in Glasgow.

Soon the three of them were wanking strongly. They were all at a similar stage of adolescence: tadgers probably not fully grown, but definitely fully functional.

Tyler had the biggest. It was grey-red and grey-yellow. It looked dirty, which Craig found sexy—probably by the word-association that dirty tadgers belonged to dirty boys who did dirty things.

Alfie's tadger was quite small, so he wanked with prissy little movements, compensating by a ferociously high stroke-rate.

Alfie and Craig dead-heated for first place, Alfie producing a couple of tiny spurts, and Craig five big ones, including one that astonished him—a real Corinthian.

Tyler took ages to come. Alfie had lost interest, but stayed where he was: it seemed that etiquette was to stay together until the end.

When Tyler finally shot, it was a piss-poor show, and Craig guessed that he'd already performed at least once that morning. It was particularly disappointing, given the size of Tyler's equipment—Craig saw a jumbo-size pair of stanes being tucked into Tyler's pants.

As they walked across the field, Tyler came from behind Craig, and smeared a finger across his upper lip. Craig immediately smelt jizzum. He pretended to wipe it off, but continued to sniff: he had only smelt his own and Tom's before and wanted to know what variety there was. He wondered what Harry's smelt like, and felt his tadger already stiffening again.

Bloody Hell!

He thrust his hand down the back of his bottoms, and chased after Tyler, brandishing a supposedly shitty finger. They ended up having a three-way wrestle, ending in a panting heap.

They lit up. Craig was getting quite used to tobacco, and, despite the coughing, beginning to enjoy it.

They puttered about for a bit until the other two returned. Whatever else had happened, the body-language suggested that Sandy's infatuation with Tom had not been reinvigorated. It was probably all for the best, as they would have to say goodbye in a week.

"I'm to go back in ten days, and they'll let me know," he told them.

Craig guessed that Abraham had wanted to avoid personal relationships complicating Sandy's path to wizardhood.

They said ta-ta to the Muggle boys, and had their dinner at the Goldsteins.

Then there were an idyllic few days for the four boys: a visit to the Campsies; a boat trip down the Clyde; a day in Edinburgh.

Too soon, Patrick had to go back to work, and the other three had to visit Diagon Alley before catching the Hogwarts Express.

There was an affecting farewell at the Goldsteins, with quite a few tears shed.

"Come on, Mam," said Anthony, "We're not being crammed like beasts and being shipped to go up the chimney."

"Quite right, libling," said Abraham, "So let us all dedicate our tears to those who suffered that terrible fate."

"I told you," said Tom, as they reunited at the Leaky Cauldron Floo, "We're getting to be a right pair o' softies."

"Three softies," said Anthony, and they entered the Alley happy as any boys there.

_**12**_

Craig and Tom stayed with Anthony on the Hogwarts Express, their three dorm-mates being busy elsewhere.

Anthony's big mates Terry Boot and Michael Corner were there—Michael with what appeared to be a boyfriend, Cho Chang, who was too effeminate for Craig's taste.

It was nice to be together for company; but it was also for protection: no-one knew that Craig, Tom and Anthony were gay, so the girls were always on the attack. Michael was now in the firing line too: going out with the beautiful Cho, Michael was an obvious fan of pretty girls, so _any_ girl who went out with him was entitled to call herself pretty. Michael became a major attraction.

A further buffer against the girls was provided by Peter Berg. He was an arrestingly good-looking Ravenclaw, a year ahead of Craig. Arrestingly clever too, even for a Ravenclaw: he and Neil Stebbins were sharing the compartment and swopped O.W.L. results, Stebbins hovering around 'Exceeds Expectations', and Berg achieving an astonishing eleven 'Outstandings' plus top grades in Muggle Maths and English exams.

Berg had a murky sexual past: he was subject to all sorts of rumours about his use of violence, hexes, potions and bodily substances for pleasure. Discounting the rumours, it was known for certain that he had arrived at Hogwarts with an extraordinary appetite for gay sex; had turned to girls for a couple of years; and for the past year had reverted to kinky gay sex—sometimes in partnership with his old oppo, the similarly murky Simon Fox.

Now he had set his sights on Tom. Understandably: Craig had spent five years growing up with Tom. Now, surrounded by all these young people, he saw him through their eyes: a pretty, but undoubtedly masculine, youth; smooth-skinned, but with the aura of a powerful sexual performer.

Berg was currently sitting next to Tom, whispering: "Fifteen now; I bet your balls are full of dynamite."

"What's dynamite?" asked Tom.

"Let me come down and see you at midnight and I'll show you."

"Not tonight, Master Nifty," smiled Tom, "I'm off to see Paul."

As he left the compartment, he turned to Craig, telling him: "We're doomed! Doomed, d'ye hear?"

Craig was half hoping that the exotic and mysterious Berg would turn his attention to him, but a textbook came out and the brilliant sixth-year scholar was made manifest.

Michael Weeks was like that: at that very moment, Craig would have been prepared to bet that he was sitting with a current girlfriend, plus three more girls, memorising a term's worth of Potions, or something.

Feeling guiltily that he should be following Berg's example in this, his O.W.L.'s year, Craig immersed himself in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five_, consulting Anthony when things got a bit baffling.

The couple of hours before Tom returned went quickly.

"Alright, Tam?" said Craig.

"Fine, fine," said Tom, "I see you're ahead of me at Charms already."

Tom had a cheerful surface, but his old friend could sense that all was well.

With an eerie empathy that perhaps contributed to his slightly-sinister reputation, Berg said: "Grindell not quite on board, Tom? Why don't you use those cute little balls on someone who understands?"

"Oh Pete!" said Tom, half-amused and half-annoyed, "Balls are balls, and they're all as cute!"

"No, no," said Pete, "Some balls are cuter than others."

The sensible, quiet, Terry Boot chipped in with: "Then why do you go after every pair in the school? Cuter balls are a myth."

Berg laughed boisterously, and told Terry: "Some cuter balls are more of a myth than others."

"As a Seeker," said Cho, "I understand balls. I regard Quaffles as a myth, and Snitches are much cuter than Bludgers."

"Which proves, sweet little Cho, that you are a saint," said Anthony.

Cho tittered, in his girlish way, and said: "When I'm with Michael I'm not very saintly."

"You _are_," said Michael, "_I_ know it, but how come _you_ know it, Anthony?"

"Because Quidditch is an allegory," said Anthony, "The Quaffle stands for success in life: we have to chase it to achieve our worldly goals; the Bludger stands for the bad things that Fate, evil men, or the mere passage of time throw at us; the Golden Snitch stands for the higher virtues, which all men _should_ seek, but not many _do_."

"What is virtue?" asked Berg."

"Everyone should memorise the Seventeen Wizarding Virtues," said Anthony, "Compassion, Courage, Diligence, Generosity, Humility, Humour, Justice, Kindness, Love, Loyalty, Optimism, Purity, Respect, Temperance, Tolerance, Truth, Wisdom.

"Everyone should carry these in their heart and apply them every hour of every day."

"Well said Anthony!" said Tom. He turned to Craig and whispered: "Funny old world: I make it that we showed at least ten of these when we—you know."

Craig had never bothered about the morality of their murders: they had been necessary to protect against future evil; but Tom's analysis had cheered him up. "Well said, Tom!" he whispered.

For the rest of the journey, they read the spellbook, with Craig revising, and bringing Tom up to speed.

At Hogsmeade they walked to the carriages. Craig and Tom had witnessed death, so the Thestrals were visible, and they gave them some friendly pats.

They got into the carriage with the kindliest-looking Thestral. Anthony and Terry made to follow them, but Berg interposed, got inside, and closed the door telling them: "Full up!"

Craig had an idea of what to expect, and wondered how Tom would respond.

Sure enough, as soon as the carriage started to move, Berg crouched down, and placed his hands on Tom's thighs.

When Tom showed no reaction, Berg fiddled inside his clothes, and, in a trice had Tom's tadger inside his mouth.

Then he was sucking and wanking Tom, with his free hand playing with the famously cute balls.

His head was moving in and out; and round and round.

It was very sexy, and Craig got an iron-hard stauner. He wanted so much for Berg to do it to him. He would have gone down on his knees to beg for it—no: that was not quite the phrase.

Tom had one hand on Berg's head; Craig placed his hand on Tom's. God, his Tadger wanted its nazzums.

When Tom started to come, Craig could feel Tom's hand clenching on Berg's head, and his own loins jerking.

He had to have a wank and had just manipulated his tadger out, when Berg abandoned Tom and started to gobble Craig, with a hand scratching and squeezing his balls.

It was Heaven—but a Heaven as tumultuous as any Hell.

Craig jerked again, and soon he was pelting Berg hard—so hard that Berg had to wrap both arms round Craig's waist and cling on tight so as to avoid being hurled against the front of the carriage.

He jerked his body even harder when he came, so it was no surprise that Berg lost control of his throat muscles, and choked and coughed, splootering jizzum all over the place.

When things were quiet, Tom asked: "Was that good, Caigie?"

"Not bad," said Craig, still gasping for breath.

"So not bad that your arse was flying a foot in the air and the whole carriage was shaking?"

"Aye, not bad."

"It was only a little pony," said Berg, as soon as he could speak, "But it bucked like a stallion."

"And it's got cute balls, like every other pair, Pete," laughed Craig.

"Yeah, I surrender," laughed Berg, "You've exposed the myth of some balls being cuter than others."

"Gonna clean us up, Pete?" said Tom, "I don't fancy going into the feast with Caigie-jizz plastered everywhere."

Berg collected the jizzum into his palm with a smooth multiple _Accio Spunk!_ before Transfiguring it into pure mountain stream-water and emptying it out the window.

"That was good—I mean Outstanding, Pete," said Tom, "And the gobble was Outstanding too, thanks."

"Aye, thanks, Pete," said Craig.

"Come down the field next Sunday, and you can join My Mile-high Club."

"Let me guess," said Tom, "Sex on a broomstick."

"You got it."

"What club did we join today, Pete?" asked Craig.

"You joined _My Thestral Club_," said Berg, "Alternatively know as the _Cuter Balls Myth_."

They laughed uproariously, and were still laughing as the carriage drew up at the front door of the Castle.

_**13**_

The Welcoming Feast was as much fun as ever, despite the Headmaster's dire warnings about Voldemort.

The happiest moment for Ravenclaws came with the Sorting of a little boy called Christopher Bloom into their house.

Red-faced and flustered, he doffed the Hat, and amid cheers from the Ravenclaws, walked towards the end of the table, but suddenly swerved and barged his way in to sit next to Tintin Wilkes, the second-year, who was sitting with some bigger boys.

They all loved Tintin. He was so effeminate that he made the voluptuous Mandy Brocklehurst look like a docker in comparison.

Everyone knew at once that Tintin now had another pansy-boy for company, and the cheers redoubled, so that Professor McGonagall had to delay announcing the next name.

Craig watched out for Harry Potter, who arrived late, and looking a bit scraggy.

The experience in the carriage had been even better than when Danny had done it. Would Harry ever do it? If he did, Craig was sure it would be better still.

The dormitory was a bit of an anticlimax. Adam and James had been given their own room—Married Quarters—and it was almost eerily quiet with only three boys sleeping there.

"Perhaps you ought to reveal yourself and go and sleep with Paul," said Craig.

"I'm not so sure," said Tom.

"I _thought_ things were iffy."

"Things were fine except . . . well Craig, I think he's starting to be interested in girls."

"Oh _Tom_! Perhaps it's only a phase. If it's not, well, you expected it anyway."

"I hoped not until Sixth Year—that's when it happens most often."

"Shit!"

Craig's plans to approach Harry Potter were put on hold by Dumbledore's restrictive charms on movement in and out of dormitories. Craig felt genuine love for Harry, and a quick poke in a cludgie or empty classroom was out of the question.

A further unsettling factor was the behaviour of Michael Weeks. This was odd from the start: he seemed uninterested in his textbooks, skimped his homework, daydreamt in class, was half-cock at Quidditch training, and lost interest in girls. The timing was singularly unfortunate as he had just been appointed a prefect.

Craig was puzzled at first before something snagged in his mind: he'd been thinking about Michael recently . . . then he got it: he'd had a drunken conviction that Michael was gay. On the face of it this was silly; but, starting with the hypothesis that Michael had fallen in love with another boy he began to watch the movements of Michael's body and eyes, and convinced himself that Michael's object was a star Slytherin first-year called Lachlan Tibbs.

This puzzled him even more: what friendship or intercourse—sexual or other—could there be between a fifth-year and a first-year. Then he kicked himself: Love knew no bounds. Tom and Grindell had proved this at Chenny. How much more feasible was it when the fence separating the lovers was institutional rather than physical—not that physical impediments didn't exist; but they didn't need a murder to be circumvented.

Besides, if Michael was primarily a girl-lover, was not an eleven-year-old boy some sort of alternative? Soft, graceful, sweet-voiced like a girl, even if firmly masculine; and with the bonus of a tadger, even if it hadn't yet reached its full glory.

He talked it through with Tom, and they agreed that they would show extra-special friendliness to Michael through what was likely to be an upsetting time.

It was a shame that Michael's taste ran to eleven-year-olds: although he was part of the furniture, he had matured well, and Craig wouldn't have minded . . . but, as it was, it looked like a wank in the showers for the forseeable future, unless something happened.

Several things happened.

Firstly, on the Friday, the five contemporaries from the Orphanage met on the lawn after lunch.

This was by chance: they shared various combinations of lessons together, so were on more than nodding terms; but, if circumstances led to the five being in the same vicinity, they enjoyed having a reminiscence-and-catch-up session.

During this session there was something about the two Slytherins, Royston Taylor and Andrew Darkham, that suggested a closer relationship than before. Andy was a prefect now, which ought to help.

Silly? He had been right about Michael Weeks. Five gay Chennies? There were five gay fifth-year Ravenclaws.

He slyly focused on Colin Goodenough and found, to his shameful pride, that Colin was unslyly focusing on him.

As soon as the chat gave him a credible opportunity, he playfully pushed Colin away before playfully pulling him back with a hand on his arse.

Colin _snuggled_—there was no other word for it. Craig withdrew his hand.

Five gay Chennies!

On Saturday nights, the Junior School enjoyed FAFABOUT's all over the school. The Fresh Air component was only comparative, but it saved them from House Fever.

On the first Saturday night of term, the students tended to be hyper; now there was the addition of the dormitory restrictions, so as well as the usual frenetic games, Craig noticed a number of pairs of boys sneakily wandering round the school—no doubt looking for unlocked classrooms or quiet corners.

He contrived quite easily to bump into Colin Goodenough, and didn't piss about: "Fancy going off somewhere for a wank, Col?" he asked.

"Okay," said the boy.

Craig had made a good call!

Most of the classrooms were locked and password-protected; most of the handy niches behind statues would have been grabbed by now; but Craig had come up with a corker.

He led Colin down to the basement, and through a convoluted set of corridors to the room where they stored the non-perishable kitchen stuff—napkins, straws, flower vases, and so on. He had found this during a game of hide-and-seek in Third Year, and earmarked it as a useful place to know.

There was no lock, and he opened the door and marched in boldly. Then he pulled up short. There were two little Ravenclaw first-years, with mid-riffs bared, fiddling with each other's kit.

They shrieked and sprang apart, looking terrified.

"Don't panic!" said Craig.

"You won't get into trouble," said Colin.

"Just piss off," said Craig.

As the boys adjusted their dress, and slunk away, Craig felt sorry for his abruptness.

"It's Bloom and Woodman, isn't it?"

They nodded.

"Christopher and Adam?"

They nodded again.

Adam had blond hair and specs; he looked clever and wholesome. Christopher had brown hair and looked very pretty, with—"

"Are you wearing make-up, Christopher?" asked Craig.

"No, not at all," said Christopher, firmly, "Just a tasteful _soupçon_ of blusher and eyeliner."

"Off you go then, lads," said Craig.

The boys moved towards the door, but Bloom—clearer the bolder of the two—stopped and asked: "Can we stay and watch, please?"

Craig would have dithered, but Colin said: "Yes; stay and guard the door; we've got enough people already."

The quiet Colin knew his own mind and had a practical aspect, thought Craig. He'd been the same at Chenny.

Under the fascinated eyes of the weans, the two fifth-years got their tadgers out.

Colin's was stiff, and dripping pussy-jizzum.

It was like Colin's face: an English-rose complexion under light-brown hair.

Colin's face was quite pretty really.

Dammit! He was prettier than Craig, and had a bigger tadger.

_Story of my life_ he thought, but such introspections did not prevent a whirlwind of lust, and he was soon stiff and wanking.

Colin came quickly—two flying globules onto the concrete floor—but Craig took some time, his eyes flicking between Colin's genitals and his face. He regretted the kids' presence: he would like to have kissed Colin; perhaps Colin would have sucked him had they been alone.

The image of him shagging Peter Berg's face came into his mind, the face blurring into Harry's, and a huge surge of passion hit him, causing jets of jizzum to fly across the floor.

There were admiring _wows_ from the kids, and Craig made himself decent. The four boys left the room and walked along the deep, dark corridors.

"How did you find that place?" asked Colin.

"We had it from Tintin," said Christopher, "And he had it from one of the big boys. Often." He giggled.

"Are you going to the Junior Gays thing, tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Hope you enjoy it. Whatyer doing now? Gunna join your mates in the games?"

"Yeah," said Christopher, without consulting Adrian.

"How about you and me have a quiet coffee in Hufflepuff?" said Colin to Craig; and that is what they did.

He enjoyed relaxing and chatting to Colin and some of the quieter Hufflepuff boys and girls.

It was good that there were a few people around, as things were flurrying around in Craig's head: sex with Danny and Peter had been simple, as they were both Mr Sex in their different ways; sex with Colin was complicated by the fact that they were friends of long standing, and would be friends forever. How could he rationally handle future relations with Colin?

Back at Ravenclaw, Tom Leggatt asked him: "Where've you been, chiel?"

"Had a wank with Colin Goodenough, and afterwards I went to Hufflepuff."

"Which obviously moved you to verse," laughed Tom.

Craig laughed too, telling Tom: "Stop right there, ma wee Tam. Colin gets enough jokes about his name without you adding your bawbee."

"Will you be seeing him often?"

"I don't know, Tam. I just don't know."

_**14**_

On Sunday morning, Adam Watts-Poxon took a break from what was supposed to be a second honeymoon, and toured the house passing out information about the Nine O'Clock Club.

Tom looked simultaneously pleased and agitated, and ran off to find Paul Grindell.

Michael Weeks declined, looking more morose than ever.

Craig was delighted, and signed up at once. He wouldn't have to think about Colin Goodenough and Harry Potter: he could leave it all to Fate.

It was only later that the full implications sank in: the Club was open to all, and he might get an eleven-year-old lumber. That would be like listening to Jimmy Shand—not objectionable, but not sexually exciting.

Tom came back flying high. "Man from De Montfort, he say yes!" he shouted.

"I'm so pleased for you!" shouted Craig.

They were so excited that it was a good thing that it was Sunday: they could let of steam with an exuberant game of Lawn Chins.

On the Monday, Craig consulted Adam.

"I'm a new-born gay, Ad," he said, "And there's a couple of points I'd like your advice on."

"Fire away, Caigie," said Adam, "I'll tell you what I know."

"Well, first of all: I was lying in bed last night, and I worked out there were seven basic things that two boys could do. How do you decide who does what, and where—I mean arse, mouth, or hand?"

"Have you got any strong preferences?"

"Well, I think I'd rather be the one who does the doing, but if my partner wanted to do me, I'd yield to him."

"That's good; but I think you're running before you can walk. When your turn comes, your partner's likely to be as green as you. You'll neither of you want to dive straight in to the full works. You'll want to get comfy with each other, and get to know each other, and have a chat, and feel your way forward—metaphorically and literally."

"And is there any etiquette?"

"Only common sense—I mean, if you wanted to finger his bumhole, say, you'd stroke it for a while, then push the very tip of your finger in, and all the time, you'd be asking: 'Is that alright?' "

"Sounds okay."

"Anyway, the first time, you'll probably just want to use your hands. Just relax and take it as it comes."

"The other point is: what if I want to do something he finds revolting?"

Adam looked slightly worried. "Like what?" he asked.

"Well, yesterday we played Chins," said Craig, "And some of the boys were a bit high; and I found their neefs—I mean smells—well . . . nice."

Craig felt himself blushing.

"Oh Caigie, love," said Adam, "Practically _all_ gay boys find the smells from boys attractive. It's like gay sex _in toto_ in that some boys suppress the attraction, and come to recognise it and enjoy it through the example of others. That's one of the good things about the Nine O'clock Club: you get a variety of partners, so Gay knowledge is spread around."

"So it's not just me, then?"

"Of course it's not, but there's tens of thousands of Muggle boys—and quite a few wizards too—who go through hell thinking: _Am I the only one?_"

"And how about close up? I mean, I was drunk at the time, so I cant remember clearly, but I think I stuck my nose in a boys arse, and smelt his arsehole, and it was nice."

Adam laughed, and took one of Craig's hands. "Oh Caigie, arseholes _are_ nice. And you get such variety—always different from boy to boy, and day to day. I must have smelt fifty arseholes in my time—and licked them too. You see, Caigie, gay sex involves all five senses: sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell."

Craig felt elated, and said: "I'm really relieved. I've been worrying for a fortnight thinking_ Am I the only one?_ to coin a phrase."

"Going back to your point about revolting," said Adam, "It's all about tolerance. Some gay boys find arseholes revolting, and couldn't possibly bring themselves to put their face anywhere near one. Well, their partners should tolerate them, and even if they desperately want to be licked, they should forego the pleasure. And the converse applies: if you don't like arseholes, you should still allow your partner to lick yours. And in neither case should it weaken the relationship."

"Is anything acceptable, or are there limits?" asked Craig.

"I suppose murder and maiming are out," said Adam, "But otherwise, it's a simple matter of mutual consent. Peter Berg's a good example: there've always been rumours about his revolting practices, but some boys have been going with him for years, so even Peter's not alone in his tastes."

"I suppose education is the thing: otherwise boys wouldn't know what they were missing."

"Very much so, Caigie. JIGS is brilliant that way. And Danny Jorrocks goes to a school in Russia which is only for gay boys. There are about twenty boys there, and they've _all_ learnt about the senses: none of them shower more than once a week."

"You've cheered me up no end, Ad," said Craig.

"I'm glad, Caigie," said Adam, "And there's going to be lots more gay sex about after this morning."

Dumbledore had announced the enforced abandonment of Exit Alarms—something that Craig suspected Adam and his friends had had a hand in.

"I bet the corridors at midnight will be like Diagon Alley with all the gay boys wandering around looking for somewhere to have it off," laughed Craig.

"Yes, all in all, the school's getting back to a healthy state," said Adam.

Craig talked through this conversation with Tom, then it was heads down for O.W.L. work until the next big highlight: the first draw.

At six o'clock on Wednesday, the draw took place in Ravenclaw seventh-year dormitory. Eddie Carmichael, the straight wizard who had thought the scheme up, had bewitched a waste-paper basket to provide the random names.

Grainger, the brilliant Gryffindor sixth-year had charmed the Club so that non-members could learn nothing about it. This evening, the Ravenclaw non-members had a vague feeling that Eddie was organising some sort of Muggle model railway club.

All the Ravenclaw members attended of course, including the usual suspects: Tom and Paul as a pair; Michael and Cho as a pair; and by themselves: Craig himself; Caerwen Morgan, who would probably form a pair with Peter Jones, the Gryffindor second-year; Christopher Bloom and Adrian Woodman, as expected; Tintin Wilkes—it would be funny if he drew Christopher.

There were also four surprises: Ephraim Chambers, star sixth-year Chaser; Ricky Alcock and David Webb, third-years, standing with their arms around each others shoulders, black hair next to ginger, assuring everyone that they hadn't even _suspected_.

But the biggest surprise was little Martin Murch—Craig always thought of him as little, but the sweet little first year had grown up to be a big, brick-shithousey fourth year.

Conversation stopped as Eddie waved his wand to activate the draw.

A slip of paper flew into Eddie's hand and he read out: _SUNDAY. Pair: Ronnie Clack, Hufflepuff Five; Ephraim Chambers, Ravenclaw Six_.

There were cheers and congratulations for Chambers—not for selecting a rather unattractive boy, but for keeping their liaison so secret.

Next was: _Singles: Harold Holmes, Hufflepuff Six; Martin Murch, Ravenclaw Four_.

There were cheers, mixed with happy laughter: Harold was the hunk to beat all hunks; there would be a huge amount of muscle confined in a small space next Sunday.

Next came: _MONDAY. Pair: Colin Creevey, Gryffindor Five; Dennis Creevey, Gryffindor Three._

There were more cheers for a popular couple—especially from Adam, James, and Derek Rath of Hufflepuff, who were spectating.

Then came: _Singles: Ritchie Coote, Gryffindor Seven; Craig Alexander, Ravenclaw Five_.

That got the biggest cheer of the night. Their own Craig—not skinny but fairly slight—was taking on the mighty Gryffindor Beater.

Craig was staggered, and slightly frightened: he'd been worrying about being given an eleven-year-old, and hadn't thought of the other extreme.

"Remember what I said, Caigie," shouted Adam, "You'll be okay."

That cheered Craig up no end.

The rest of the draw revealed no more Ravenclaw surprises. There were only five pairs, including Jones/Morgan, so the Creeveys and Cho/Corner got two goes. Adrian Woodman was the only other Ravenclaw to be lucky: he was coupled on Tuesday with Gideon Buchanan, the strikingly beautiful darkie second-year from Hufflepuff.

"Ooh, you lucky girl, Adrian!" he heard Tintin say, and the pair had a chaste kiss in celebration, with Christopher joining in.

Tom and Paul were selected for the same night as Adrian and Gideon.

"Should be interesting," said Craig.

"Not as interesting as you and Coote," laughed Tom, "Don't try and shag him: he'd suck you in and spit out the pieces!"

"Don't!" said Craig.

"You'll be alright!" said Tom, "I mean you'll be alright, _girl_!"

"Yes, you'll be brilliant, Craig," said the rather shy Adrian.

"I forgot to mention, Tom, that Adrian and Christopher spectated when I had that session with Colin Goodenough," said Tom.

"Best sight I've ever seen," said Christopher, "Coote's a lucky girl!"

Tom and Craig creased up at the idea of anyone calling Coote a girl."

"It's true," said Christopher, "Craig's a real man, isn't he Ada?"

"Er, yes, Chrissie," said Adrian.

Then harsh reality intervened, and it was O.W.L.'s homework for Craig and Tom.

_**15**_

Over the next few days, Tom was quite relaxed about the coming visit to the Club Room, but Craig was full of nerves.

Tom saw this, and helped his friend to escape his demons by hard work. As a result, Craig produced a Transfiguration essay which subsequently earned him the most un-McGonagallesque grading of _O+!_

By Saturday evening, however, they both were sick of textbooks, parchments and quills.

"Shall we go and FAFABOUT?" asked Tom, "Stretch the body and relax the mind?"

"I'd sooner have a quiet night," said Craig.

"You could go and find Goodenough."

"Merlin! That would _really_ confuse me."

"Let's go and sit with the third-years, then; they're just having a quiet game of cards."

Tom and Craig usually avoided the third-years, because it helped keep Tom and Paul's relationship—so far, confined to the cludgies—secret.

But tonight Paul was romping round the corridors and only two of his dorm-mates were in the common room: the chubby-faced, raven-haired Ricky Alcock, and the lanky ginger-minge, David Webb.

The two boys welcomed them—they were friends anyway; now allied more strongly by gayness; and, perhaps most of all—thirteen-year-olds have a short-term view of life—because Ricky was teaching David a Muggle card game that was best played with four players.

This was just the thing to divert Craig, and they spent a happy half-hour buried in the mysteries of the card-deck.

James Fear, another third-year, came in for some ginger, and stopped by them to drink it. Stooping from his great height, he said to his friends: "Bloody hell, Ricky and Dave! You haven't spent thirty seconds out of each other's company for the last three days. Are we gonna have another wedding?"

On his next visit, he laughingly kissed the two boys, and shouted:

_Are you queer?_

_Oh dear!_

_Not here!_

_No Fear!_

To this, Craig sallied with:

_I hear_

_Weak jeer!_

_Someone near,_

_Talks from rear!_

James was delighted, kissed Craig, and ran off.

"So innocent!" said Tom.

"Imagine what he'd be like if he _knew_," said Craig.

"He's okay is James," said Ricky, "He'd take it."

"Right up the jacksy!" said David, causing a noisy burst of merriment which made Mandy Brocklehurst at the next table shout: "Quiet you lot! We're not sent to Hoggie to enjoy ourselves!"

"Anyone for Dennis?" shouted a voice.

"I'll fight anyone who is!" laughed Mandy.

You couldn't help liking her, thought Craig.

They were joined at eight o'clock by another third year: Stewart Ackerley, a sweet, mousey-haired boy whose dominant attribute was an overwhelming shyness. He liked losing himself in a crowd, but was not very strong, and had retired from the games, red-faced and panting.

James Fear and Paul Grindell came in and joined them just in time to be sent to bed at a quarter to nine.

Into the ensuing mental vacuum, the notion came into Craig's head that he'd have preferred David or Ricky—Stewart, James, or Paul, come to that—as a Club partner. Then he felt a bit guilty, as if he were betraying Coote in advance. He laughed at the illogicality.

"What's funny?" asked Tom.

Craig explained, to which Tom responded: "For a boy with four murders under his belt, you find some weird things to feel guilty about. Everything'll be okay; you'll see."

Craig could still feel Stewart's body heat, and got a demanding stauner. He was trying to save himself for Monday night, but it was not going to be easy.

Sunday was wet and windy.

They did a bit of work with the suddenly-cheerful Michael Weeks; then went outside for a wander. A game of football was being organised, and they stopped to watch. There were a lot of sexy big boys there, plus Michael's Lachlan, and Mr Fay, who was pretty sexy himself.

After lunch, Michael went to the library, his scholarly character re-asserting itself.

Craig and Tom played cards with David and Ricky.

Stewart Ackerley came in and sat down next to Craig again. Craig went stiff, as before, then went even stiffer when Tintin sat on his other side.

He forced his mind to concentrate on the cards: he knew that thinking about . . . about . . . good Lord! he was thinking about shagging David.

By sheer will-power he stopped himself creaming his underpants.

Michael came to dinner, almost manic in his happiness.

Manic.

Wasn't there a disease called manic-depression? He and Tom ought to watch Michael carefully. He might need Madam Pomfrey.

Craig glanced over at the Gryffindor table, and found Coote glancing at him. They each smiled nervously.

They had an invitation to Hufflepuff to play Wizard Wars, a complicated board game at which the girls were always better than the boys.

Hufflepuff had a few surprises among its Club members; but not too surprising: Craig remembered the old rhyme:

_Rough or smooth, full-speed, or slow-mo_

_Hufflepuffs are always homo_

_Father, brother, uncle, son_

_Hufflepuffs shag anyone_

_Belly-button, mouth or ring_

_Hufflepuffs shag anything_

_No good for you to run or hide_

_When Hufflepuffs shout: "Open Wide!"_

At ten to nine, they left Hufflepuff accompanied by Harold Holmes, who picked up Martin Murch for the inaugural night of the Nine O'Clock Club.

They wished them good luck, then joined Michael in chatting to a few of the boys and girls until it was time for bed said the prefects, including Michael.

Next morning, Craig and Tom were up early, and down to breakfast betimes. So were the rest of the Clubbers.

Martin was the first to show. He'd obviously slept well, as he was his usual, jokey, happy self.

To the flood of questions he told them: "It was great. Ephraim and Ronnie did a bit of bouncing about, but me and Harold just wanked each other off a couple of times."

When pressed for more details, he said: "Nothing more to say. We were there for nine hours, and were asleep for eight, and I'm sorry I can't remember my dreams."

Ephraim appeared late. He was limping, and had bags under his eyes. His mouth was too full to do more than mumble: "Ronnie and me are best friends for life."

But at lunchtime Martin was revealed as a lying toerag: word was that he'd been shagging Holmes all night, and given him a love-bite every time he came.

All the Clubbers found an excuse to wander by the Hufflepuff table, and broke up in laughter and astonishment: Harold's neck was bitten all over.

"You're a right little nookie-niffler, Mart," said Craig, ruffling the boy's hair in affection and admiration.

A new verse was added to the School Song:

_Our top student, he is called Murch_

_Arseholes and cocks are his favourite research,_

_If he feels like some men-crimes_

_He'll have your arsehole ten times,_

'_Cos we are from Hogwarts School!_

All this excitement, and a fiendish double Potions that afternoon failed to prevent a new worry for Craig: Holmes and Murch had entered the Nine O'clock Club as comparative strangers as far as their bodies were concerned; yet Murch must have spent much of the night shagging Holmes.

What if Coote wanted to shag Craig? Craig wouldn't _have_ to say yes, but he wanted very much to please.

Coote had a whopping arse, and Craig remembered the old proverb: _A big nail needs a big hammer_.

For the first time, he felt some physical fear. He tried to remember Mrs Englishen-Latin and Professor Darrington on the concepts _necessary_ and _sufficient_.

After a while, he gave up logical thought and jumped to the bottom line: Coote might have a tadger like a rolling-pin, and might want to stick it up Craig.

Could he handle the situation? More to the point, could he handle the shagging?

His nerves were in tatters, but he put a brave face on things.

Tom offered to keep him company to the third floor, but he said no, and was standing outside the cludgie door a full fifteen minutes early.

_**16**_

It helped a lot that Coote arrived with his fellow-Gryffindors. The Creeveys were so cheerful, sympathetic, and self-assured that it was hard to be nervous—or at least, hard to be embarrassed by one's nerves—and his introduction to Coote went like a dream.

And, praise be, Coote was nervous too: "Er . . . Hello. Craig, isn't it?"

"Er . . . Hello Coote—er . . . Ritchie—Is that alright?"

The brothers investigated the place like a pair of sniffer-crups searching for banned substances: darting everywhere, and giving voice joyously when they found something interesting.

Craig was intrigued at the concept of spying on whatever was going on in the cludgie.

"That might be good fun," he told Ritchie, who merely responded: "Er . . ."

He was blushing. God, he _couldn't_ be a prude, surely?

Then, suddenly, they were standing by themselves: the brothers had gone into their cubicle, and there was the sound of feverish undressing.

"Er, shall we go in?" asked Craig.

"Alright," said Ritchie, in the same sort of voice in which someone might have responded to _Would you care to board the tumbrel now, Monsieur le Marquis?_

They went into their own cubicle, hesitated, then took off their robes.

They could hear Colin and Dennis sharing slurpy kisses next door.

"Well, here we are then," said Craig.

"Yeah," said Ritchie.

"Quite a nice place, isn't it."

"Yeah, it's okay."

The kissing next door changed its sound and location: One of the Creeveys was kissing the other all over.

Ritchie bravely took the initiative by taking off his T-shirt, and Craig did the same.

Dennis was producing occasional appreciative moans, which, from the current location of the slurpy sounds, led Craig to guess the Colin was kissing Dennis's arsehole.

Then, silence, followed by solid, rhythmic sounds: there was no doubt that Colin was now shagging Dennis.

"Shall we sit down?" suggested Craig.

They sat on the bed together, in their underpants.

"What do you think we should do," asked Craig.

"Shall we hold hands?" said Ritchie.

"That's a good idea," said Craig, and they joined hands—two very sweaty hands.

Dennis started yelling—moans and screams that reached a deafening pinnacle before dying away. Dennis was only thirteen, but there was no doubt that he had experienced an adult's level of pleasure from his orgasm.

"Shall we get into bed?" asked Craig.

Ritchie opened his mouth to answer, but his lips froze: Colin was having his own orgasm. This time, as well as screams, there were troll-like grunts, and the whole room shook for a few seconds.

There was a last _Aah!_ as though Colin were dying.

"Are you okay?" called Ritchie, looking very worried.

Colin _was_ okay, and the four lads chatted about the situation.

It turned out that Ritchie was a bit down because Danny Jorrocks had sucked him off in the cludgie below, and now Ritchie was worried about possible observers.

Craig told about how Danny had sucked him off and how he'd looked forward to more of the same.

Ritchie showed signs of panic at this, but Colin suggested that he and Craig simply went to bed together in the nude, got close together and kissed goodnight.

And that is what happened.

As Ritchie took off his pants, Craig saw that he had indeed got an impressive penis: it was big and fat, and gave promise of a spectacular stauner.

They got into bed and lay face-to-face.

They were both sweating—Ritchie by the pailful—nerves rather than heat, Craig guessed.

They put an arm round each other, and pressed their lips together. Craig could smell Ritchie's armpits. It was a friendly, homely smell.

They touched tongues, but when Craig tried to advance a little, Ritchie compressed his lips.

They stayed like that for a while, then Craig moved his hand to feel the big fat tadger. It was heavy, and Craig sensed its power, but it didn't even twitch.

Ritchie made no move to reciprocate. Craig couldn't blame him: his own tadger—smaller to begin with—was as limp as a lettuce. He had once sent a burger back because it lacked _Crisp lettuce and tangy lemon_.

"That's nice," said Ritchie, tightening his arm around Craig, but backing his head away from the kiss, "Goodnight, Craig."

"Goodnight, Ritchie."

It _was_ nice, lying next to this big lump of a boy. Nice in a non-sexual way. Perhaps the married couples got more pleasure from this than they did from having sex. Perhaps this was all that Ritchie wanted from the Club. If so, Craig was glad that he had provided it.

He didn't feel at all upset at his failure to emulate Martin's feats, or envious of the Creeveys' red-hot shared orgasms, though it seemed weird that boys who had been so close to each other for so long, could feel such a deep physical attraction.

There was a neef about the place. He could smell sweat from Ritchie and himself; a touch of semen; and Dennis-shite. He smiled as he thought back to his Chenny days. Neefs were just a part of life there, like green grass and fluffy clouds.

Ritchie started to snore. "Sweet dreams in my arms," whispered Craig.

He started to go through the next day's lessons: Magical creatures first; Hagrid was another one it was impossible to dislike. Transfiguration in the afternoon. He wondered what McGonagall would make of his essay.

McGonagall.

As he drifted towards sleep, his thoughts wandered into something like:

_Beautiful room o'er the third-floor cludgie_

_That gets rid of our shite, so neefy and sludgy,_

_How meet that the place that the sailors call heads_

_Should yield to a paradise with two little beds._

_How meet that in sleep when there's no call for blether_

_You hold through the night four boys clinging together._

Then he was suddenly alert again, with an idea.

He'd never thought that he would be interested in sex in a cludgie, but the spyholes suggested a form of sex that was suddenly attractive: tadger-tracking.

His habit had always been to look straight ahead when he was taking a piss; he had genuinely been uninterested in other boys' tadgers. But now he was gay, and sleeping next to another gay boy—he gave Coote's tadger a wee squeeze—things were different.

He would talk to Adam and he was sure that_ Am I the only one?_ would produce the response: _No!_

He was wide awake now, and as Ritchie was still snoring, he decided to indulge in a touchy-feely session.

His first target was the ballsack, which received a comprehensive groping. God, the balls were enormous. They dwarfed Craig's, which dwarfed Tom's. He was certain they dwarfed most seventeen-year-olds' in Hogwarts.

He let his arm stroke Ritchie's back, before descending to the mighty buttocks. They were flabbier than he had expected; neither the size or the tone would have appealed to a Greek sculptor, but to Craig they were magnificent—so magnificent that he spent ages exploring them before delving into the dark, secret crack.

It was very sweaty and hairy in there, and the bumhole was buried amid a mass of very thick, very sweaty hair. This was utterly different from wee Sandy's, and he had to give it the Sandy-treatment.

He worked his way down and across the bed and pushed his nose deeply inside the crack.

He inhaled deeply but was disappointed: he could feel the moisture on his nose, which was nice, but there was only the tiniest, evanescent hint of nasal magic. He found the hole with his tongue, and licked. There was no taste, but it felt terrific, the way it moved and yielded. He wondered if he could get his tongue inside, but as soon as he pressed, there was a slight movement from Ritchie, and a slight break in the regularity of his snoring. Best to abandon that line.

He moved back up the bed. He had a raging stauner now, but waited for the snoring to become rock-solid again.

Then he gently shifted the big fellow so that he had his head resting on Craig's shoulder, and a hand on Craig's arse.

He lowered his own hand to grip his tadger, and started to wank.

It felt brilliant, and after a few strokes, he started to come.

His body jerked as each spray came. _Splash! Splash! Splash!_ By the time he had finished, Ritchie's tummy and chest were sodden. What a completely satisfying experience; and what a shame Ritchie had missed it all.

He prepared to shift to a comfortable sleeping position, but found he was already _in_ one.

He kissed the top of Ritchie's head. His hair smelt nice.

He turned his mind off for sleep.

_So far, so good_ was his last waking thought.

_**17**_

He was hot, and the heat was coming from a large body. He was lying with his head on someone's chest, and his hand feeling . . . could it be? Yes! Bulging, rounded hurdies.

The body was shifting slightly. That must have been what had roused him from sleep. It was Ritchie, of course.

His heart did a little leap: Ritchie must have woken up in the night, analysed the position of their bodies, and done a straight swap. He clearly approved of the affectionate intimacy expressed by their positions.

He stretched, and raised his head. Ritchie was awake.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"Sleep alright?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

He kissed Ritchie, and this time Ritchie was more responsive.

He moved his hand round to feel Ritchie's tadger. It was stiff, and as big as feared—no, not feared any more. _Rolling pin_ was a fair description.

He gave Ritchie a stroke, and the boy kissed harder, and moved his loins forwards.

He started wanking Ritchie, and the boy grasped Craig's tadger, and made it mutual.

They had a minute's absolute bliss before Ritchie, kissing more passionately than ever, unleashed an ocean of boiling-hot jizzum, wanking Craig strongly during and after his orgasm.

Craig had never felt so contented in his life. He added his thimbleful to Ritchie's mess, and the two puffing boys relaxed, their kiss becoming gently loving.

They didn't speak. There's was nothing to say: they were two poofs who'd just had good sex, and were laying sated in each other's arms.

It was six o'clock; time to make a move.

The four boys dressed quickly, and agreed that it had been a wonderful night.

"I say, I say, I say!" said Craig, "How do you get rid of unwanted arsehole hair?"

"I don't know," said Dennis, always ready for a joke, "How _do_ you get rid of unwanted arsehole hair?"

"Pf, pf, pf." Craig made little spitting movements with his lips.

They all laughed, but Craig hoped that he had given Ritchie food for thought. He would like to see Ritchie again.

When they separated, Craig kissed the three Gryffindors goodbye—Jings! Who would have thought that one day he would be kissing Colin Creevey?—and made his way to Ravenclaw.

He flopped down on his bed to grab another couple of hours.

At eight o'clock, they wandered down to breakfast, with Craig talking Tom through the previous night. Michael couldn't take anything in, of course, but he was lost in his own happy world, anyway.

Michael's recovery from his depression seemed to have given his pale face an inner glow, thought Craig. No wonder the girls swarmed round him. No wonder that Craig's tadger was demanding to give Michael one.

Craig's tadger was pretty demanding all day. _The more it gets, the more it wants_, thought Craig, recollecting some earlier eras of wanking.

At lunch, he and Ritchie smiled at each other across the great Hall.

That night, the Nine O'Clock Club was a real Ravenclaw-fest.

Paul Grindell went first, shepherding Adrian Woodman.

Then Tom went up, accompanied by Craig. James Poxon-Watts insisted on going too. "It'll be just like the old days," he said.

On the way back, Craig asked his friend: "How's married life, Jamesy?"

"Brilliant!" said James, "I keep having to pinch myself. I can't believe it's real. Every second of the day, the back of my mind's saying _This is Paradise!_"

"I'm so happy for you and Ad," said Craig, "Though it's a mystery to me."

"What, love?"

"No—well yes—but the fact that love should strike the two of you when you've had four years of twenty-four-seven. It's like the Creeveys: in their case, since infancy."

"That's the magical power of love, Caigie: it can hit people out of the blue—love at first sight; or it can take years to grow; or anything in between. I thought it was love at first sight when I first saw you, Caigie, but that was just practice for when me and Adam meshed."

"It was love at first sight with Tom and Paul, too; though they've kept their relationship what you might call non-platonic."

"Everyone's different, Jamesy."

"And they change, darling Caigie; who'd have thought that you were suddenly Transfig star of the century!"

The boys laughed at the absurdity.

They reached Married Quarters; Craig stopped James going in and rapped on the door, shouting: "Mrs Poxon! Mrs Poxon! Special Delivery."

Adam opened the door.

"Adam, treasure," said Craig, "I'm just about to kiss your better half goodnight, and I don't want there to be any favouritism."

Adam stuck his head out and was duly kissed. So was James, before going inside to join Adam in celebrating their tenth joyous reunion of the day.

It was lonely in the dormitory with just the two of them there. Tom said that he and Michael had lain in their beds reviewing the day's lessons; and that is what Craig and Michael did.

He did not hear Tom's six o'clock return, so the grilling had to wait until eight o'clock.

"From one point of view it was good," said Tom, "It was great having his arse in comfort. I shagged him five times in three different positions."

"Sounds bloody good from _any_ point of view," said Craig.

"The thing is Caigie, he wasn't _interested_. He hasn't Changed, and he doesn't get orgasms. It didn't matter when it was in and out of the cludgie, but when you're together for a whole night, it's blatantly one-sided. I feel I've been selfish."

"You'll be on again next week. It'll sort itself out."

"I'm not sure I _want_ it to sort itself out."

"Well, the sorting itself out'll sort itself out," laughed Craig.

"Yes. The immediate future calls for plenty of protein: bacon, eggs, cheese, nuts," laughed Tom, "Coming, Michael?"

Over breakfast, Craig asked: "What about the other two?"

Tom smiled: "Oh Caigie, it was so sweet! They're both little boys, even though Adrian's fresh to it, and Gideon's—well, Gideon."

"Sucked as many of the big boys as the rest of the school put together."

"Yeah, and he's so absolutely beautiful that even the straight boys can't say no. They're thinking of reclassifying the cludgie-cubicles as domestic residences, he spends so much time there."

Both boys laughed at the antics of the ravishing little charmer.

"And he _boasts_ about it too," said Craig, "He told Derek Rath that he could identify forty boys' jizzums—and I believe him."

"Well," said Tom, "You'll know that I was a bit busy, and they weren't providing a running commentary, but it was clear that Adrian was in charge. He was inspecting and feeling every part of Gideon's body. He took ages doing it. We could hear little comments: _Your thoracic vertebrae are quite prominent, have a look at mine_ . . . _That's a nice perineum_ . . . _Turn the light up; I want to see the colour of your soles._"

"His dad's probably a doctor," said Craig.

"His dad's a Muggle _priest_," said Tom, "The Dear knows what he'd think of his son if he knew what he was up to."

"Give him a priestly blessing, I hope. They've both of them got mine. Was that all they did, Tam?"

"Well, it was pretty thorough, and I think it included inside the arsehole. Then, when they were going to bed, Adrian was all: _Put your arm there_ . . . _Put your leg there_ . . . _Put your hand there_, and they must have been in a cuddle like a wrestling match."

"Good for them."

"There's more," said Tom, "I set my Wizard Alarm early so I could get in a morning poke, and we must have woken them up. When I got my breath back, I heard this gurgling sound. I couldn't work out what it was; then I realised they were having a good kiss. They were really going at it. I shouted it was time to get up and Adrian said _Just another five minutes_, and started again; and Gideon said _We really have to get up now, Adrian_ and it was _Just another five minutes_. They were still at it—_Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle_—when me and Paul left, ten minutes late."

"That is the sweetest story I ever heard," said Craig, and both boys went to their lessons walking on air.

That evening, something happened which had never happened before: Tom and Paul had a colloquy in the common room. Moreover, they left Ravenclaw together, and did not reappear before third-year or fifth-year bedtime.

Whatever it was, it would probably turn out to be shit or bust, thought Craig.

He was woken by Tom's return just before ten.

"Okay?" he said.

"Yeah," said Tom, disappearing into the ablutions.

"Do you want to talk about it, Tam?" he asked, when Tom returned.

"Not now."

It was _bust_, thought Craig.

After a while, he got out of bed, and went to sit on Tom's bed.

"Best pals, Tam," he said.

"Alright," said Tom, "It's over, as you've probably guessed."

"I'm sorry."

"We talked and talked, Caigie, and the more we talked, the more it was obvious that there was no future."

"It's a shame after all this time."

"Aye, time. We're totally different people from when we first met. We talked about it, and analysed it, and agreed about it.

"I've never talked to you about when I was first at Chenny. I was only eight. I was in the _Illiterates_ for ages, and when I moved to the _Possibles_, I saw this little-boy-lost through the fence. My heart felt for him, and I fell in love. And he was as lost and lonely as me; and here was someone taking an interest in him, giving him hope; and he must have been flattered that I was older. He probably saw me as the big brother who would protect him from the horrors—and there _were_ horrors, weren't there?"

"Aye, too many for wee boys and girls to have to put up with."

"And then he came to Hoggie, and we just picked up on our love, like before; but looking back, we can see it was a different set-up, and instead of becoming secret lovers, we should have become open friends. You wouldn't have minded, would you Caigie?"

"Of course not; neither would Jamesie."

"And then I got the urge, and it seemed natural for me to use him; and he thought so too. We both thought that was the way things happened. And we've just drifted since then: two years drifting until last night."

"It's a pity it couldn't have happened after Paul'd got the urge," said Craig.

"And that's the last bit," said Tom, "He's beginning to get the urge—and it's for the lasses."

"He's definite on that is he?"

"Aye, he's got no doubts."

"So you'll be friends, but not lovers, or even close friends."

"Aye, I suppose so."

"Well: you and me's best pals; the two of us will work out a rational approach together."

"A rational approach? This is love and sex, Caigie; not some sort of Arithmancy problem. What can you and I do?"

"Well, in the first place," said Craig, I think we ought to take off our pyjamas."

"I'm not ready for jokes, yet . . . er . . ."

Craig's pyjamas were off, and he was unbuttoning Tom's.

"Craig, is this a sacrifice out of sympathy?" said Tom.

"No, it's two best pals working together. Let's get into a cuddle like a wrestling match."

They wrapped themselves round each other.

"Now; let's just sleep on it; something'll come up, and we'll probably wake with a solution in hand."

He kissed Tom, and they turned their minds towards sleep.

_**18**_

Craig woke at seven.

Despite the nagging from his cramped limbs, he'd enjoyed the most restful sleep of his life, and now he was experiencing his happiest feelings ever.

It was as if Fate had led him to this place, and this time. It was like coming home after a cruel night-journey through wind and hail. It was like a golf ball curling across a bumpy, tilted green, before circling the lip and spiralling into the hole.

He opened his eyes at the same time as Tom.

There was no need to talk.

Their lips touched, with the cosmic power of a pair of feathers crashing into each other, and a slow, tender kiss developed.

Their tongues flickered, one against the other; they took it in turns to explore each other's mouths.

They wanted to kiss and kiss forever, like wee Adrian.

It was different from the last time they had kissed: Craig had been bluitered then; but he was in peak form now, with all his senses alert. Crivens, how could someone else's mouth taste so _glorious_?

They were feeling hurdies now, and Craig was aware that this wasn't just about five years of friendship and unspoken love: he wanted to shag Tom, but far, far more important—he spoke the first words of the day: "Have my arse now, Tam."

"Are you sure, Caigie?"

"Have my arse now. What way do you want me?"

"More kissing."

Craig lay on his back, and he watched Tom's face as he fingered Craig's arsehole.

Then—Oh, what a wonderful Universe!—Tom was lying on top of him, and kissing him. as his tadger slid inside him.

Tom's whole body jerked, as things moved from the misty, slo-mo character of the morning so far.

Heaven! Heaven! Heaven! Tom was shagging him—jolting and banging their bodies together; holding him tight; kissing him with a force that was almost cruel.

More Heaven! Tom was pumping his love out. Craig had Tom's essence inside him.

Tom didn't piss about after seeing to Craig's arse: he was straight onto the tadger, taking it into his mouth, sucking hard and nodding backwards and forwards.

Craig's head was so full of emotion that, despite all the activity, he hadn't noticed any sexual urgency, but suddenly it was there: as a fiery cross commands aggression, so the fires inside Craig forced his stanes to empty themselves into Tom.

It was good being sucked. It had been good with Danny and Peter; but that was just sex and comradeship. This was love; and love made things complete.

They had another fond kiss.

There weren't Scottish or English words for the emotions that Craig felt, so he had to make do with a mundane: "That was good, Tam, my love."

"It was just a wee way of saying we were pals, Caigie, my love," said Tom, with a smile.

"I love you Tom, dearest," laughed Craig.

"I love you, Craig, dearest," said Tom, in fits.

"Haven't we been fools?"

"Yeah, I had what Mrs Englishen-Latin calls Category Confusion over Paul."

"And I punched you for kissing me; and I wouldn't let you do jessie cantrips."

"I could have tried harder to persuade you."

"Waste of time: I was non-poof until I fell in love with Harry Potter."

"You weren't anti-poof, though. What about Harry now?"

"Harry Potter can stick his head up Voldemort's arse, as far as I'm concerned. What about Paul Grindell?"

"Paul Grindell can stick his head up Harry Potter's arse, as far as I'm concerned."

"Talking about that, ma wee Tam, I've a bit of unfinished business."

Craig unlocked himself from their embrace, and turned Tom face-down.

He gave Tom's arse a wee peck; then a proper kiss.

He kissed it carefully and thoroughly all over.

It had a sort of inner, golden glow, like Michael Weeks's face. It was much smaller and firmer than Ritchie's arse; but they were both perfect in their own ways.

Sensuously, and slowly so he could enjoy every moment he moved his nose into the crack.

He found the hole, and breathed in.

There it was! Not the same as he remembered from his drunken samplings of Sandy, but absolutely delicious.

Adam had said that it was always different from boy to boy, and day to day. Craig vowed to check Tom's arsehole every morning and night.

He smiled as he thought of the whisky description. What was Tom's? He took another fabulous inhalation, and decided that the neef had mustard spiciness, a sweet oak, caramel-vanilla, and mellow flowers; and that if a distiller found a way to reproduce it, whole continents would become alkies.

When the scents were exhausted, he moved to the taste-test. There was a mere hint of magic here, but, as with Ritchie the touch element was superlative.

Tom's arsehole was much smaller and tighter than Ritchie's, and less hairy—no hair at all, in fact—no need for _Pf, pf, pf_.

He had repeatedly explored what Professor Sinistra would have called the _Penumbra_ and _Umbra_, marvelling at the way wrinkles could feel silky, when he felt it was time to go for an entry.

He pushed his tongue forward, and loved the way the Umbra yielded—but only so far, before telling Craig this was _Private Property_.

"He was aware of the curtains moving, and Michael Weeks's voice saying: _Time to get up, Tom—oh, I'm sorry!_

Michael withdrew, and immediately reappeared.

He slapped Craig's arse, and said: "I'm _not_ sorry, actually: not sorry for interrupting, 'cos it's time to get up; and not sorry for seeing you doing that, because I like you both, and I want you to be happy."

Craig and Tom moved to make their preparations for the day, and Michael tracked them, and chatted.

"Are you an item, or was that rather eccentric episode, just meaningless and/or adventitious?"

Michael was a real brainbox.

"We're an item, Michael," said Tom.

"Two lovers," said Craig.

"I _am_ pleased for you," said Michael, "I hadn't realised. How long has it being going on?"

"Nine glorious hours," said Craig.

"Brilliant!" said Michael, "And I blunder in right at the start, and just at the time when I was wondering whether to tell you fellows that i was gay."

"You, Michael?" said Craig.

"Yes, Me! Well—not really gay, but I've been in love with a boy for nineteen days."

"What do you think, Tom?"

What Tom thought was:

_Heh, heh!_

_We don't like Michael oh no_

_We love him!_

_We don't like Michael oh no_

_We love him!_

To which, Michael responded with:

_Jolly shagging weather,_

_Penises standing proud,_

_Pubes as light as a feather,_

_Anything is allowed,_

_Penis and arse together,_

_With shoulders beneath the knees,_

_We're all queers together,_

_Come join with us if you please._

The entered the Great Hall singing the second of these charming ballads, and Anthony Goldstein intercepted them.

"Come and have a private breakfast with me in Queer Corner," he said to Craig and Tom.

Queer Corner was the end of the Ravenclaw table right under the eyes of the teachers. It was no longer used as a place where gays could meet and goad probably-homophobic professors, but it was still the recourse of students wanting to talk in private.

"I say boys," said Anthony, "Did you mean that song? If so, it's solved my problem."

"We meant it," said Craig, "Now, what's the problem? I mean, what _was_ the problem?"

"The bricks have only just arrived, but Mum's already worrying about furniture, and stuff."

"What _are_ you talking about, Anthony, Dear?" asked Tom.

"Your room, of course."

"What room?"

"Well, you're boarding with us, aren't you?"

"Have you found a double room for us?"

"We're _building_ a double room for you. You're going to have half of Patrick's and my room."

The boys protested that an ordinary double room would be nice enough , and they didn't want Patrick and Anthony to lose their space.

"We're not losing our space," laughed Anthony, "We're just using it differently by having a kennel for our pets: two little chappies who we love dearly."

"It's really good of you, Anthony," said Craig, "We're really, really grateful."

"It was Abraham's idea, actually; he said we should cleave to our brethren."

"What about the cost?"

"Dad thinks he can swing it onto the Ministry."

They tucked into their breakfast.

Craig suddenly remembered: "What _was_ the question, Anthony?"

"Single or double bed," was the smiling answer.

"Everything was brilliant already," said Craig, happily, "And now me and Tom will be together all the time, and nobody can stop us!"

_**Epilogue**_

"Shite! Shite! Shite!"

"What's up Craig?"

"Two weeks to Christmas; our wee nest in the Gorbals waiting; O.W.L.'s in six months. And this turns up."

Craig passed the owl to Tom, who read:

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC_

_SOCIAL SERVICES OFFFICE_

_Department of Juveniles_

_To Craig Alexander_

_Ravenclaw V_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Mr Alexander,_

_Reallocation of Indigent Magical Leftovers_

_This is to inform you that your Mother Mrs Mary-Ann Alexander of 167 Garrioch Road Maryhill has applied to the Family Panel for your Custody under the Kinship Responsibility Rules and has received Approval._

_You are therefore required from 21st December 1996 to domicile yourself at the stated address._

_Your fees at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are paid to the end of the School Year. All other benefits and emoluments including but not restricted to such as Lodgings Allowance Subsistence Allowance Kit Allowance Textbook Allowance terminate on the stated date._

_The Department of Juveniles would like to thank you for your support._

_BRENDA LUCKIE, Underassistant Department of Juveniles_

_Approved_

_ROBERT SLADE, HEAD OF DEPARTMENT OF JUVENILES_

_Copy_

_MERLIN EDWARDS, Filing and Proliferation Clerk Department of Education Hogwarts Paperwork Section_

"Let's show it to Anthony," said Tom.

Anthony Goldstein said: "I'll owl it to Dad, and he can show it to the lawyers. But why, after all these years?"

"Haven't a clue," said Craig, "But she wouldn't do it unless there was something in it for her."

"There's a big minus in it for her," said Anthony, "She's no longer indigent, or under-financed, or she wouldn't have got custody; that means she's letting herself in for legally-binding full upkeep of you till you're seventeen, plus two years' Hogwarts fees."

Alas, the Goldsteins' lawyer couldn't find a loophole, and Craig turned up on the evening of the 21st outside his old home. He was not alone: since this was now Craig's domicile, the boys decided that Craig was allowed to bring a schoolfriend to stay. They had a collection of potions with them as insurance against the unexpected.

The door opened and an old crone of thirty-six appeared.

"Oh Craig, my poor lost boy," she croaked, "Welcome home. Oh how you've changed!"

"That's because he's not me," said Craig, "He's called Tom and he's coming to stay with me in my dear old home."

They barged their way in, followed by two hovering trunks, and Craig saw a tall, mousey-haired man in his fifties.

"Hello, Craig," he said, shaking hands, "And this is Tom is it?"

He had a suave English accent, and was wearing what was probably the only tie in the Maryhill Zone, but he might as well have had _Nasty Dark Wizard_ tattooed on his brow.

"Are you from round here, Tom?" he asked.

"The Ruchill end of Maryhill," said Tom.

"There's a very mixed lot in Ruchill isn't there?"

Craig butted in: "Not Tom's block, Uncle Harold. They're all as pureblood as round here."

Tom picked up the way of the wind from Craig: "And it's staying that way. There was one of the lasses wanted to marry a Muggle. She didn't want to for long. And if she _had_ married him, she wouldn't have found him much of a husband."

The boys laughed as they had heard Mr McNair laugh when the Muggle was crushed by a bus.

Uncle Harold beamed, and said: "Fetch the tea, Missus."

Mary-Ann busied herself around the range.

"Come on, Tom," said Craig, "Let's get the trunks into the bedroom."

"Oh, are you staying the night, Tom?" asked Mary-Ann.

"He's staying for a _few_ nights, Mother," said Craig, "We've got to revise together for our exams."

"There's only the wee bed, Son."

"As long as it's got two ends, we'll manage."

They had a convivial evening.

Uncle Harold was in charge, though Mary-Ann got bluitered, and told dirty jokes.

Uncle Harold turned out to called Charlesworth, and worked at the Ministry.

Craig had no doubt that he'd wormed his way into this particular household specifically to target the young Ravenclaw pureblood whose roots were here.

He noticed that Charlesworth drank less then he appeared to, and seemed drunker than he was.

"Best behaviour," he muttered to Tom, as they went to bed.

He touched his ear, communicating to Tom that Charlesworth was probably magically eavesdropping.

There was no sex; only a few angry calls of _Move your leg and give me some room_.

There was the sort of conversation that fanatical young followers of Voldemort might be supposed to indulge in.

Craig had an idea, and introduced a new topic.

"That Charlesworth's the real thing, isn't he?" he said.

"Yeah," said Tom, "Do you think he's met Himself?"

"If he hasn't, I bet he's met someone who has."

"Wow!"

"Tom, do you think we ought to tell him about Trussler's treasure."

"I don't know, Craig; what do you think?"

"I'm thinking that Himself's lying low and building up his support; and now might be the time when he can really use it."

"True enough."

"Let's sleep on it, Tom."

"Yeah. Goodnight Craig."

"Goodnight Tom."

The next morning, Charlesworth appeared to be on edge. He livened up when an owl arrived, but it was only the _Daily_ _Prophet_. He was sitting reading the paper when a second owl brought him what was clearly good news.

"Can I have a word with the boys, Missus?" he commanded.

"I'll away for my shopping," said Mary-Ann.

Charlesworth showed them the owl:

_Second one confirmed OK. Spare acceptable &amp; could be useful._

He told Tom: "That means you're going to join Craig in a great task—a task commanded by the Dark Lord himself."

"What, us?" said Craig.

"But we're only a couple of schoolboys," said Tom.

"A couple of schoolboys at Hogwarts," said Charlesworth, "And some day, the Dark Lord is going to want to take over Hogwarts. Now currently, we can be sure of Slytherin, but Slytherin is only one of three—"

Craig burst in with: "So you want us to be Himself's agent in Ravenclaw? That's beyond my wildest dreams!"

He bounced with happiness.

"And mine," said Tom, "What an honour!"

Charlesworth explained how they could send and receive coded owls.

"There are no specific instructions as yet," he said, "But you must report anything you think could be useful—even tiny things."

"Yes; we'll be utterly reliable," said Craig, "Will we have to liaise with the agents in Gryffindor and Hufflepuff?"

"As and when. You'll be advised."

Craig guessed that there were no Voldemort agents in the two houses—nor in Ravenclaw, did Charlesworth but know it."

Charlesworth himself appeared to be a little excited.

"And have you anything you could tell me now?" he asked.

"I think so," said Craig, and looked at Tom, who nodded.

"Well, Uncle Harold," he began, "A few years ago, there was what they called the Wizarding War. There was a lot of activity up here, and an old guy called Mr Trussler bewitched some gold out of a Muggle bank. He set a false trail so the Muggles thought it was shipped to Ireland off the West Coast, while Trussler prepared to send it to the Dark Lord. But then the Dark Lord had to go into hiding and people were saying he was dead, but we didn't believe that, did we Tom?"

"Not for a moment," said Tom.

"Nor did old Mr Trussler," continued Craig, "But he was worried that _he'd_ be dead by the time Himself returned. So he told the youngest reliable people around—that was us: he knew we were reliable after what we did to that Muggle girl—where he'd hidden it."

"And where _had_ he hidden it?" asked Charlesworth, sweating with excitement.

"In his coffin. He had his coffin made in advance—said he wanted to spare his family expense—and lined it with the gold under a Weight Reduction Charm. A couple of years ago he died—he left instructions to invite us to his funeral—we were at Hogwarts, and got the day off to go."

"How much gold?"

"I can't remember whether it was a hundred and eighty or a hundred and ninety pounds weight.

"Trussler," said Charlesworth, "Have you got his initials, or grave number, or anything?"

"Are we going to dig up the gold, Uncle Harold?"

"I'm not sure you boys should go."

"Oh _please_! It's a historic moment. And we can act as lookouts and diverters. We grew up in Maryhill; we're brilliant at it."

"Very well," said Charlesworth.

"We'll go and check the grave out this afternoon, Uncle Harold."

They left after their dinner, and Craig explained his plan, on the way to the shops. They bought their stuff, and a golf bag to keep it in, and went up to the Necropolis.

It was soon all sorted, and they were back in Maryhill in plenty of time for their tea. Craig explained that Trussler's mean family hadn't bothered with a headstone, but he and Tom were absolutely sure of the grave.

As soon as it was dark, they Flooed as near to the Necropolis as possible, and walked the rest of the way. Charlesworth laid some Concealment Charms, and Side-Alonged the boys over the railings in two journeys—it was a pathetic wizard that couldn't manage two teenagers in a single Apparition, thought Craig.

The boys found the grave.

Uncle Harold got his wand out, and a clod of earth flew up.

"Keep it tidy, Uncle," said Craig, "Always cover the contingencies."

He didn't know what he meant, but Charlesworth heeded his advice, and soon there was a neat pile of earth.

They looked down, and saw the lid of the coffin.

Charlesworth raised it and they saw the grisly sight.

Charlesworth looked as though he might be going to check the name on the plate, but Tom said excitedly: "Look! You can see the gold where the lining's rotted!"

Charlesworth was peering over when: CLUNK! A heavy hammer landed on his head, and he toppled into the grave.

"Good shot, Caigie!" said Tom, "Though I bet your mate Coote could have done it harder."

"Ssh!" said Craig, "The Protection ends with him."

Tom jumped down into the grave, and straightened Charlesworth up. He took the dead man's wand from his hand, and the hammer from Craig's, and banged the wand through Charlesworth's heart.

They fetched the two compact spades they had hidden that afternoon, and filled in the grave, replacing their divots as meticulously as any golfer. They scattered the spare earth around leaving everything neat.

Uncle Findlay had company.

They went to have a piss on Uncle Alec, before leaving the cemetery via the gap they had created earlier, and walked off as a sweet pair of middle-class boys returning from their golf lesson.

They ditched the spades, hammer and jack at points in Maryhill where they were sure to be snaffled.

"Where's your Uncle Harold?" asked Mary-Ann.

"Called to the Ministry," said Craig, "But he said to have yourself a wee bevy."

He gave her the last contents of the golf bag: two bottles of forty-year-old.

They went to the bedroom to revise for their exams.

It was Potions that night: they worked out and mixed various combinations of Befuddlement Draught, Forgetfulness Potion, Confusing Concoction, Babbling Beverage, and Essence of Insanity.

They waited for Mary-Ann to get slightly tiddly before starting to lace her drinks.

Just after midnight, she started showing signs of odd behaviour, and they put her out with a good dose of Sleeping draught mixed with Essence of Insanity.

"Well?" said Craig.

"No time like the present!" said Tom.

They fetched their wands, and did the Panic _Protego!_ letting the Ministry know that underage wizards were being attacked.

The Ministry response was quite good, considering the time of night: a young trainee, lumbered, no doubt, with lots of night rosters, arrived within thirty seconds.

He had Apparated silently, but wouldn't have been much use had there been Dark Wizards or Witches about: he stood looking at the boys, and saying: "Er."

Craig and Tom laughed: it was so obvious that here was a poof overwhelmed by two attractive adolescents.

The two Aurors who arrived a minute later were much more efficient: they put up the right defences, and asked the right questions.

"It's my mother," said Craig, "I was Reallocated by the Social, and she's been weird since we arrived last night. She went a bit homicidal, so we Alarmed. She's passed out now."

The trainee had had the sense to check that Mary-Ann was breathing. "She's in a deep sleep," he said.

Then things began to get crowded: senior wizards and witches arrived from the Social and Education Departments, and because they were senior, they had to have assistants.

But it was the Senior Auror who was in charge.

"So you are Craig Alexander, who was returned to your family after five years in care of the Social Services Department—to your family in the form of your mother who is present, but not contributing."

His lip curled in contempt.

"He was sponsored by Mrs Alexander's partner, Mr Charlesworth," said a middle-aged witch.

"I have the files, Hilda. Kindly do not interrupt."

He looked at Craig.

"Yes Sir," said Craig.

"And you are Thomas Leggatt, currently boarding at Goldstein's in the Gorbals?"

"Yes Sir," said Tom.

"Where is Mr Charlesworth?"

"He hasn't been here, Sir; but we know the name: Craig's Mother was gabbling it."

"Well, we'll get your mother to St Monica's, Craig—I see she's been there before. And we'd better find you somewhere to stay."

He turned to Tom.

"Thomas, do you happen to know if Goldstein's has spare capacity?"

"I haven't checked in there yet, Sir," said Tom, "But we go to Hogwarts with Anthony Goldstein, and he mentioned they were nearly empty over Christmas."

"Right, so you can stay with your friend, Craig. Accept my sympathy for suffering yet another balls-up by the Social—Shut up, Hilda! Just try and get things right when your putting things right."

"Proudfoot! I must protest!" said the unfortunate Hilda.

"Protest in your own time," said Proudfoot, "Just organise payment to Goldstein's, emergency cash for Alexander, and put a note on his docket saying no reallocation without Minister's personal approval. But, most important of all get them home to bed straight away."

"We've both got trunks, Sir," said Craig.

"Good Point, Craig. The Social would probably lose them."

"Really, Proudfoot!" said Hilda.

"Really yourself, Hilda! Your Lot have moved this child, just before Christmas, from his friends, to _this_ place, under control of _that_ woman, and on the say so of a questionable character—which reminds me: Dawlish, organise a search for Charlesworth—lowest possible priority—personally, I hope I never see him again."

Craig and Tom exchanged glances: they hoped the same.

"Thaddeus," said Proudfoot, addressing the trainee, "I know you joined us to chase death eaters, but could you do this humanitarian task?"

"Willingly, Sir," said Thaddeus.

He organised the transport perfectly, and soon they were on the doorstep of their new home.

The Goldsteins were panicked by the night-time knock, then overjoyed to see Craig and Tom.

The were profuse in their thanks to Thaddeus, and asked if it was too late to invite him in for cocoa and biscuits.

"It _is_ too late, thanks, but I couldn't anyway, I'm on duty," he said, and Disapparated.

"Tell us what happened!" said Anthony.

"Tomorrow, tomorrow!" said his father, "The boys are tired. Tomorrow is soon enough."

"How's Sandy?" asked Tom.

"He's fine. Tomorrow, libling," said David.

Anthony and Patrick took them up to their brand new room, with its brand new bed.

They washed the dirt from their heads and hands, and jumped into bed, and straight into a sixty-nine.

"Your jizzum tastes nice tonight," said Tom.

"I can taste potato scones in yours," said Craig.

After a while, Tom shagged Craig, then sucked him off.

"I wonder what we _really_ did to that Muggle girl," said Tom.

"I don't know, but I'm sure it involved another coffin," said Craig.

"You know, we've murdered by Fire, Water, and Earth. Next one'll be by Air.

"I murdered by _lack_ of Air."

"So you did—your famous plastic bags."

"And I know how to murder _with_ Air?"

"How?"

Craig farted.

The two boys laughed, and lay together as happy as any boys in the Universe—which proves that he that toucheth pitch, shall _not_ be defiled therewith—if he is an innocent on the side of righteousness.

"Are you happy, Caigie?" said Tom, "Shall I give you another gobble?"

"I'm happy, Tam, but I'm so tired, I couldn't squeeze out any semen," said Craig, leaning his head on Tom's shoulder; though his actual words were: _Ah'm gey an' blythesome, Tam, but ah'm sae wabbit ah couldnae futer e'en a puckle o' jizzum_.


End file.
